Ill-met by Moonlight
by jmsutherland
Summary: Hate and heat are making Ankh-Morpork almost impossible to live in. Something dark and malign is behind it, but no one knows what. Except one little girl in Lancre who doesn't even know how old she is.


A Pricking of Thumbs

"By the picking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes.

Open locks,

Whoever knocks."

 _High in one of the myriad and mysterious towers of Unseen University there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping at a chamber door; only this and nothing more. Arch-chancellor Arcane Remembar –formerly Lecturer in Recent Runes- looked up from his papers._

" _Come!" he called, failing once again to achieve that strange mixture of "Enter" and "Go way!" that had seem to come so easily and naturally to Mustrum Ridcully, his late and vaguely lamented predecessor._

 _The Librarian knuckled his way across the floor and folded himself into the chair directly opposite the Arch-chancellor._

" _Good morning, Librarian," he began, "and what can I do for you today?"_

" _Ooook," said the Librarian, who had accidentally been transformed into an Orang-utan some years before and had since resisted any attempts to change him back._

" _Yes, I can see that." Like the rest of the staff he had learned to speak Orangish over the years. "What precisely is it that's bothering you?"_

" _Oook!"_

" _They often bother me too, but this is a university so at certain times there are bound to be students. It's unavoidable, I'm afraid."_

" _Ook, ook," said the Librarian petulantly._

" _Again, it is not without precedent for students to wish to visit the library. Though I'll admit it is unusual," he laughed, mirthlessly._

 _The Librarian was not amused, which he demonstrated by smiling, menacingly._

" _Oooook!" he protested._

" _Oh, I see," said Arcane, "it is the books themselves that are complaining, rather than you. Well that is a most serious situation. I shall call a meeting of the senior staff for this afternoon; I trust you will be able to attend."_

" _Ook," the Librarian affirmed, apparently mollified._

" _Until then, in that case," said Arcane._

 _The Librarian nodded his acknowledgement; then barrelled his way out of the door, slamming it gently behind him._

 _So, now, in addition to the fact that Hex, the CPU-continuing purpose unknown- in the Department of High-Energy Magic was seemingly spewing-out nonsense, or at least more nonsense than normal and the plague of "unidentified rash" –that was apparently afflicting the student body- there was this. For the third time that morning Arcane sighed deeply and wished he'd become a night-soil man._

 **Chapter 1**

The Pseudopolis Yard nick ran like a well-oiled machine. Admittedly, it was a machine that frequently broke down, needed constant maintenance and often had to have parts replaced, but it was always well-oiled. Especially when Nobby Nobbs was around. Captain Harry Mudd hadn't noticed Lance Constable Buttress move in any way, but he knew he'd been spotted. That was the way with gargoyles.

When he'd first come to the city he'd thought they didn't move at all, ever. However, Commander Carrot had told him that, though they could sit perfectly still for years, when they did move it was faster than any human could see. But Harry wasn't just any human. For a number of reasons he suspected he had some vampire-blood in him. There was a time when he'd used to tell people that, but he'd stopped, as they always laughed at him. Anyway, he'd started paying more attention and had now, on a couple of occasions, seen gargoyles catching pigeons. Only just, because goodness they were fast.

So, in spite of not seeing Buttress move he knew that his arrival had been noticed, recorded and passed down the line. Sure enough, when he turned into the Yard Lance Constable Anthracite was standing rigidly to attention. Of course, being a Troll, whatever Anthracite did, he was pretty rigid while he was doing it.

"Mornin, Sur!" he rumbled.

"Good morning, constable," said Harry, returning his salute.

He didn't know how they did it. In the couple of seconds between his coming into the gargoyle's line of sight and his turning the corner, Buttress had managed to inform Anthracite of his imminent arrival so that the Troll was already saluting, because it took Constable Anthracite a couple of seconds to do that, even with a week's notice. It had to be a stone thing.

As Trolls were pretty much made out of stone and Gargoyles looked as if they'd been carved out of stone he'd speculated that perhaps Gargoyles were carved out of Troll. Even Lance Constable Smite –Smite the Unbeliever With the Wisdom of thy Words- could spot the gigantic flaw in that one.

"Ok," he'd said, "even supposing you could somehow tie a Troll down for long enough to do the carving. He'd get free eventually and come after you. And who'd be mad enough to want to do something like that in the first place?"

Constable Smite, being Omnian, knew a lot about wanting to do mad things, so if even he thought the idea was mad then it was probably mad-squared. Smite was currently courting a nurse from Morpork Mercy called Shame –Shame the Infidel with the Beauty of thy Virtue. It seemed to Harry to be very odd relationship. Lance Constable Smite and Nurse Shame hardly ever met and, when they did, they barely looked at each other and hardly spoke. On this evidence he wondered how Omnians ever managed to make little Omnians. Though it was clear that they did, as there were certainly a lot of them around the city these days. And what was undeniable was that: with their platinum hair and their coffee skin; their noble bearing and beautiful features, they looked like gods' chosen people. Harry knew there were many strange gods up on Dunmanifestin, but he thought it a particularly odd one who would make such stunning-looking people ashamed to look at each other.

So, Gargoyles weren't carved Trolls. Trolls living in the icy winds near The Hub were not only smart, they were quick and nimble, but nothing like Gargoyle speed. And, though Buttress could have nipped down off the roof, told Anthracite, and got back up faster than a human eye could follow, Harry would have seen him. They had to be communicating some other way. Still, it was a mystery that would have to wait.

Sergeant Boltmaker was on the desk and she tipped her helmet at him. Boltmaker was an older dwarf, not one of these frivolous, fifty-year-old girls, like Littlebottom or Deepdelver who wore high-heels and makeup and suchlike. In fact the only clue that Boltmaker was actually female was the two little bows she had tied in her beard. And they were made of wire. Not that he had anything against Sergeant Littlebottom, of course. Cheery's lab and Doctor Igor's autopsy suite were the two most efficient things in the Watch. Or any other Watch, for that matter. These days Cheery only ever left her lab to visit murder sites. Igor never saw any reason to leave Autopsy as they brought the murder sites to him.

"Anything important today, Sergeant?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," replied Boltmaker, "the Commander wants to see you as soon you come in."

"I'm intrigued," said Harry.

"I'd be worried, "said Boltmaker.

This was worrying. If the stories were to be believed, Boltmaker wasn't worried when a mineshaft collapsed on top of her, trapping her up to her neck for six days. Or when she was cornered and attacked by three Trolls out of their outcrops on Slab. In both cases she was reported to have said: "But I wasn't alone, my axe was with me."

So, if she was worried it was, well, worrying.

Then suddenly there was a waft of something sweet and dank and alluring. He turned and caught a glimpse of laced-up, shapely calf and was lost.

"I'll get right on it, Sergeant," he said, absently, but his mind was all on Sally.

Sergeant von Humpeding had been the first vampire on the watch and it hadn't been easy for her. Initially even Commander Vimes and Sergeant Angua had been against her, as had everyone else. No one likes a bloodsucker, or trusts them. Yet she'd come through it and proved them all wrong. Now she was a highly-valued officer of the watch. She also tormented his dreams and a great many of his waking hours too. But then he was hardly alone in that.

It didn't seem possible for her to have an ample bosom and generous hips one minute, but a slender, coltish figure the next. She could flash her eyes at you like a seductive, older woman; but look again and it was the face of an angelic boy. Albeit the type of boy that certain schoolmasters shouldn't be allowed anywhere near.

Sergeant Angua had seen the affect she had on all the males in the Watch, even the Trolls, and tried to put a stop to it. First she'd said that Sally wasn't allowed to wear black lipstick, or black nail-varnish on her fingers and toes. She'd had to drop that when the Black Ribboners objected that it was the equivalent of saying that Dwarfs couldn't have beards. Next she objected to her wearing such short skirts. Until she measured them and found them to be no shorter than anyone else's. Harry had to admit that they certainly looked shorter. A lot shorter. Eventually Angua had given up. Maisy Midden, the cleaner, said she'd heard her explaining it to Commander Vimes:

"We could dress her in old sacks and pour ashes over her head and she'd still look stunning. It's allure. She was born that way and there is nothing anyone can do about it, not even her."

For her part Sally was fed-up to the sharp teeth with "allure". Oh, it was great if you wanted to lure someone into a trap so that you could suck their blood. That was why they'd evolved the way they had. But it was a right pain in the elbow if all you wanted was to go down the shops for some bread. And there were men and women queuing up to be her victims. And not attractive ones either. It was fine if you lived in Themiddleofwherestadt, Überwald. There you could pick and choose who you wanted to entrap. But in somewhere as crowded as Ankh-Morpork people were falling over each other to throw themselves into traps you hadn't even laid.

It wasn't as though she hadn't tried: floppy hats, loose-fitting blouses, baggy trousers… But as soon as she walked out of the door her morphogenic field would take over. The hat would become small and stylish, the blouse was suddenly a crop-top to show-off her belly-button and the trousers were three-quarter length and skin-tight. The most voluminous and unflattering of dresses pinched its waist and dropped its neckline within seconds of her putting it on. There was nothing she could wear that didn't make her look like she'd like to be wearing nothing. And that was another problem.

If the attention became too annoying, or sometimes for purely police reasons, she could vanish into a mist, or into a lot of bats. However, unlike Vlad or Otto Chreik, when she re-materialised she didn't do it fully-clothed. She'd lost track of the number of times she'd had to walk back through The Shades without a stitch on. On the other hand, if you're a helpless girl stranded, naked, in the most dangerous parts of a dangerous city, then being a vampire has many advantages. Though The Shades was still a very dangerous place, it was safe if you were a frail young woman on her own with no clothes on. Word spread quickly in The Shades and there was no point in taking suicidal risks. Some people can spot a trap, even when there isn't one there.

And another thing about her affect on the male, of several species, was that she couldn't actually see the attraction herself. Naturally, there was no point in looking in the mirror but she kept a portrait of herself that her mother had done when she was young. She wasn't ugly, of course, whatever that meant, but looked rather gaunt, she thought and, really, a bit ferrety. And that was her own mother who was, presumably, inclined to be flattering in her depiction of her daughter. But that had been over a hundred years ago; she had no idea what she looked like now, any more than anyone else did. Apart, perhaps, from Harry Mudd.

Like almost every male on the Disc -and every female- he looked at her with desire in his eyes. The difference was that he didn't do it in the normal, wide-eyed way that made people look as though they'd been mesmerised. It was as if he could see through the allure at what she actually was and fancied her anyway. It was rather intriguing, but it would have been an impossible relationship. There was the age-difference for one thing: he was late-twenties; she was a hundred and forty-eight. They wouldn't like the same music. On the other hand, her best female friend –in fact her only female friend- was a werewolf married to a six-foot-two Dwarf, so you never knew.

Angua now had two children: three-year-old Wolfgang –named for Angua's grandfather- and little Ironhammer, who was named after Carrot's mother. Sally was even Ire's godsmother. As Angua had put it: "I can't think of anyone better able to watch over her than a woman who'll live forever and could rip a man's head off with one hand, can you?" Her soft-skills hadn't much figured, though she really was working on them; along with her domestic talents. She so much wanted to be a "normal" woman that she'd even lied about her age. Only Angua knew that she wasn't really fifty-five.

However, though she could "feel other people's pain", because she'd caused enough of it in her time, and "see things from another's point of view", because she could take over their minds, it turned out that cooking and cleaning weren't quite so straightforward. It wasn't that she couldn't do it. She cleaned her apartment every other day, though something deep in her blood cried out against dusting and clearing spider's webs. And she was, she was told, a superb cook. It was just that there was something fundamentally wrong with her even trying. Angua had said it was like watching someone in a ballgown and a tiara doing the washing-up. These were things done by Igors or pale, young wenches, and not by someone whose name is three-pages long. But was that really any odder than a werewolf changing nappies and knitting booties?

There was nothing Salacia liked more than a morning, after a tough night-shift, spent chatting to Angua and playing with the children. She could almost hear generations of ancestors turning in their graves at such an offence to vampire-kind, and the problem with her ancestors was that once they had stopped turning they might climb out of their graves and come and get her. But before any of that there had to be breakfast at Bernie's.

Bernie the Butcher had been the most feared gangster in Morpork before Sally met him. Ankh had a different class of gangster; not better, just different. The Thieves Guild had apparently taken out a contract on him with the Assassins Guild, but even they couldn't frighten him, or even touch him. And then he and Sally had had a chat. It was the making of her reputation. As far as everyone was concerned she had taken a terrifying, murderous thug, and turned him into a respectable purveyor of fresh meats. Only she and Bernie knew that he'd been dying to get out of the gangster business for years and the only thing stopping him had been the prospect of, well, dying. In a long and nefarious career he had simply made too many enemies to just hang up his cleaver and go quietly into retirement. And that's where Sally came in, because she'd had a proposition for him.

If a rumour could get around that there was something so utterly terrifying that it scared even Bernie the Butcher, then it'd probably scare a lot of other people as well. More importantly, it would likely frighten them off seeking revenge on Bernie too. Because Sally could appear in many scary guises and do a lot of scary things inside people's heads. Never mind the scary things she could physically do to them, if they were too stupid to run away.

And so, Bernie the Butcher shut up shop and opened another as… a butcher. It's what he'd trained as when he was young, after all, and how he'd got his nickname, that had just kind of stuck, and had also sounded suitably menacing in his new line of work. He'd never actually butchered anyone, but you couldn't blame people for jumping so far to the wrong conclusion that they missed the sandpit altogether. Mind you, he'd broken more than his fair share of bones in his time; he was no Omnian Sister of Kindness, to be fair.

It'd all gone pretty smoothly. A couple of people had come round needing to settle old scores and he'd settled them. Some with monetary reparation; some in other ways. And Sally had put the frighteners on all the rest, quite literally. But all that had been right at the beginning; everything was quiet now. Bernie was a respectable small-businessman with a wife and family and he had Sally to thank for it. Making sure that Sergeant von Humpeding had the very best cuts from the very best beef-cattle to be found on the Sto Plains was the least he thought he could do in return.

For some unfathomable reason friends seem to enjoy going through little rituals where they say the same things to each other every time they meet and then laugh. They think other people find this endearing. They're wrong.

"Morning, Sally," said Bernie, "what can I get you?"

"Steak sandwich, hold the bread," she replied.

"How would you like it?"

"Raw."

It wasn't a substitute; it wasn't intended to be: the blood was cold and the meat was so tender you could have eaten it with rubber teeth, buts gods it was good. She'd often had to put up with the taunts of others that there was something shamefully human somewhere in her lineage. She didn't know if there was a substance to them but if there were she was sure that filet steak was speaking to her "inner-woman".

The Carrots didn't lock their door –there really was no one suicidally stupid enough, even in Ankh- Morpork…- and she and Angua were now such good friends that she never bothered knocking, yet when she walked into the room Angua looked shocked.

"What's wrong?" asked Sally, alarmed.

"You've got blood on your fangs!"

"Oh, that," she said, taking out a napkin and wiping her mouth, "that's just breakfast."

"Anyone, I know," laughed Angua.

"Not funny, my furry friend."

"Sorry," Angua didn't apologise, "Ire's teething and I've got teeth on the brain at the moment."

"Well, if she has her mother's teeth I can see how that would be a problem."

Angua laughed again: "Shall we declare peace?"

"Done. Where is she, by the way?"

"Sleeping, for once, thank gods."

"And Wolfie?"

"Wrecking someone else's house with a bunch of other little boys at a birthday party."

"Hmmm, so what are we going to do?"

"Do you drink…vine?"

"At eight-thirty in the morning!?"

"Well, if you're not going to have a drink when you get off work, when are you going to have one? Unless you do not drink…vine."

"No," said Sally, "I'm OK with…vine. Especially after vurk. What's your excuse?

"I'm the mother of two small children whose husband is a policeman. What more excuse do I need? But I'm having one glass and you're finishing the bottle.

"Well," said Sally, "when you put it like that…"

Angua raised her glass: "To tonight!" she said.

"What's happening tonight?" asked Sally.

"You're coming to dinner."

"That'll be nice for me, but my mother shall be furious that I didn't send a thank you letter for your kind invitation."

"I'm sure she'll understand as I've only just invited you. How is the Lady Lachrimosa, by the way?"

"Still dead."

"Oh, that's nice, give her my love. I haven't seen her since the wedding."

Like most Überwald weddings, that of Carrot and Angua had been a strained affair. Though this particular one was as strained as a crossbow-string poised on the verge of driving a bolt through someone's skull. It almost strained the word "strained". But, of course, Absolutely Everyone simply had to be there. Angua had got along rather well with Sally's mum. Better than with Carrot's at least.

"Will it be just we three?"

"Not on this occasion," said Angua, adopting Sally's lofty tone, "we shall be joined by Hartmut Albrecht Lothar Verführung Lang-Eckzahn von Dreck und Messing.

"Doesn't tinkle any chimes. Though, I feel that it should."

"Well, you work with him."

Sally frowned and thought for a second; then her eyes went wide.

"Harry Mudd!? So, he's been lying about his name?"

"Yes, and you're not the only one who's been lying about their age."

"What do you mean?"

"My husband has been doing some investigating, as is his habit, and he thinks Captain Mudd a.k.a. Herr von Dreck und Messing may be older than he says. A lot older.

"I'm intrigued."

"So are we; that's why he's coming to dinner."

"Ah, fiendish. Do you mind if I cook tonight?"

"We were rather counting on it."

Angua's cooking might charitably be described as "competent". Even the Disc's most forgiving heart could not describe Carrot's efforts even as "incompetent". It's was rumoured that he could fry water.

"Ok, I'll finish my wine and go shopping."

"Don't you need a sleep?"

"I once didn't sleep for two years; I'm sure I'll manage."

"And the Guild of Weather-Diviners predicts bright sunshine."

"Damn! I hate the rain."

"Mmmm, Sal?"

"Yeees?" said Sally, immediately suspicious.

"Would you wear something restrained this evening?"

"No."

"Well, would you at least try to wear something not too sexy?"

"What would be the point?"

"Fair enough. Then can we have steak for dinner?"

"No."

"Oh, Sally, please."

"No! Carrot would only want it "well-done" and the last time he did that it made me cry. We're having fish."

Sally could sneer "well-done" so that you could hear the inverted-commas.

"I did think it was odd of you to cry."

"Well, it was either that or bite him."

 **Chapter 2**

Anges supposed she should have been grateful that it was the way it was. When it was going to be a fairly straightforward birth, or when the injury or illness wasn't too serious. Or when young girls were enquiring about love, whether in its ethereal, or its more urgent manifestations, they usually came to Mistress Nitt. But when they weren't sure how the birth would go; when they worried that an illness might end up with Him coming to the door, in fact whenever they thought they wouldn't like what they were going to hear. They preferred to hear it from Mistress Aching.

There were lots of advantages too: she got invited to all the weddings –everyone wanted a witch to say a blessing- and all the baby-namings –for the same reason- while Tiffany attended all the funerals. Also, though she was "pleasantly plump", she could see the way a lot of young men looked at her and knew that, if and when she chose, marriage and children lay in her future. And she didn't need a crystal-ball for that. Whereas Tiffany would be _Mistress_ Aching until the day she died.

And it wasn't as if she wasn't respected –she'd learned from Granny Weatherwax after all- but she was respected in the way that Nanny Ogg was. Now, this was no mean thing in itself, and she knew she had the best of the deal all the way down the line but, somewhere deep inside –and there was a lot of her to be inside of- she hankered for that look of terrified awe that people sometimes looked at Tiffany with.

She knocked at the door and heard Nanny shout: "Come in, dearie!" from somewhere inside. Tiffany was already pouring the tea; with a "little extra something" in Nanny's cup. Just to keep out the cold. It was lucky that for the short time that Nanny wasn't going to be waited on by one or more of her daughters-in-law –or granddaughters-in-law- she had the two young witches to wait on her instead.

Back when it had been Granny and Magrat they had met out on the mountain. But now, what with Nanny's rheumatism, and arthritis, and lumbago, and one thing and another…well, it only made sense to meet in Nanny's cottage instead. Neither Tiffany nor Agnes believed in any of these ailments, anymore than Nanny believed they did, but they figured she'd earned it.

"Just a bit more medicine, my chick," said Nanny, as Tiffany added a few more drops of scumble to her tea.

No one apart from Nanny spoke to Tiifany like that. In fact she doubted there were many people on the Disc who would have dared to. At least, not more than once.

"Hi, Aggie," said Tiffany, "would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please," replied Agnes, "but without the apple juice."

Tiffany laughed in that lovely, little-girl way that only she and Nanny ever heard anymore. Ever since Tiffany had moved in to Granny Weatherwax's old cottage all the old frivolity had left her. She wasn't sad; she wasn't miserable, she was just…serious. She had a lot of things to do and they weren't funny, any of them. Except going round to Nanny's house.

They sat down and did what witches have done all down the ages: address the problems of their community. Only ignorant men would call it gossip. Fortunately, this could be done over tea and delicious cakes –all gifts- in front of a roaring fire, in a cosy cottage. Agnes was sure that even Tiffany preferred this to dancing around on a windswept heath without her drawers on.

First, the essential business had to be conducted and assignments divided-up, then they could relax. For example, Tiffany was going to be paying a visit to a farmer who had been paying the wrong kind of attention to his daughter. She almost pitied him.

"Right now, dearies," cackled Nanny, "you both know I'm a lying, old baggage…and you don't have to go nodding that quick neither."

They both laughed, but Nanny was just smiling, wryly, which wasn't like her.

"I take it that there's something on your mind, Nanny," said Tiffany

"What little of it I've got left," Nanny laughed, "But you're right. Listen, my chicks, if you haven't seen it yet then it must be a long ways away, but a witch can always foresee her own death. Have you seen yours, Tiff?"

"Yes."

"Aggie?"

"Yes, Nanny."

"So, when I tell you that mine is getting close you'll know that, for once, I'm not lying."

They were all quiet and serious for a minute; then Nanny broke the mood by cackling again and asking for more tea and scumble before going on.

"What I'm talking about is tradition," she said, being unusually serious, "the three ages of woman: the maiden, the mother and the crone. Magrat, me and Esme. Since Esme died and Magrat got in the family way I've been doing two jobs, but at least there were still three of us. There won't be for much longer and it's up to you two to find a third. And I mean a girl, one with the "talent", to be trained-up by one of you two." She paused, took a drink of tea, smacked her lips and went on:

"Now, I don't want to go making any assumings but if one of you is ever going to be a mum it's our Aggie."

Agnes blushed, actually, so did Tiffany, and she couldn't for the life of her think why. However, they both nodded.

"Right," Nanny continued, "that's sorted. Now, it ain't happening tomorrow or anything like that, I've got a little while to go yet, but I've got another reason for wanting to talk about it now and I think our Tiff knows what it is."

Agnes looked at Tiffany, who looked both perplexed and shifty, which was a look Agnes hadn't thought possible.

"I was talking to a certain tall, dark stranger the other night, when I was sitting –up with old Mrs. Whittling. I think He'd just come from you, Tiff. Weren't you with the Furrow baby?"

Tiffany looked surprised, but nodded. Agnes was completely mystified.

"He has an interesting way of talking," continued Nanny, "He doesn't say much, but when He does talk, then you listen:

"I DO NOT NORMALLY HAVE OPINIONS, MRS. OGG, AS YOU KNOW," He says to me, "BUT I THINK WHAT IS HAPPENING NOW IS EVIL.

"Now what do you suppose He meant by that?"

Between them Agnes and Tiffany were acquainted with most of the forms of wickedness known to human, dwarf, troll, gnome, elf, werewolf, goblin, orc and vampire-kind. And yet even they sat there pale, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Moonlight Smith had been naughty again, apparently. She wasn't pretty, she wasn't cute, she wasn't good, she wasn't nice, she wasn't sweet, she wasn't deferential, she wasn't bubbly, she wasn't obedient, she wasn't coy and she wasn't corrigible. There was nothing she could do about the first two, nor the last, but she tried with all the others, she really tried.

They had tried hurting her by: beating her with canes and belts and sticks. They had tried humiliating her by: making her stand in the corner with a dunce's cap on, or kneel with her arms outstretched, or stand on a stool, infront of the whole class. But whatever they did to her, that infuriating look of defiance was still there.

For her part, Moonlight knew that she shouldn't call Anne Wyddicum or Billy Piper stupid, but they did say such stupid and hurtful things. And she only punched Esther Vey when she bullied other children. Still then she'd known the rules were there and that she'd broken them. But she didn't know what she she'd done this time.

What Moonlight couldn't see was that the problem her teachers had with her was not her behaviour –which was exemplary, by anybody's standards- but with the fact that she was more intelligent than any of them, and by a long way.

Mrs. Glamp had been demonstrating a long-division on the board when Moonlight had piped-up:

"I think you've made a mistake, miss."

"Are you saying I can't do arithmetic, Smith?"

"No, miss, you just made a mistake."

"Seventeen twenty-eights, eh?" demanded Mrs. Glamp.

"Four hundred and seventy-six," replied Moonlight, immediately.

"Wrong!" said ," not so clever now, are we? Get out and clean this board, now!"

Mrs. Glamp had no idea whether the answer was correct or not, but she could now see the error she'd made in the sum on the board herself and wanted the evidence erased as quickly as possible. Without anyone realising that was what she was doing.

Moonlight dutifully did as she was told and was then led outside by the ear.

And that was why she was now standing in the playground, in the rain, in her bare feet.

Of course, she was always in her bare feet, because she didn't own any shoes, but at least she had the excuse of being an orphan. The ones she felt sorry for were the children who had parents and still didn't have any shoes. The one person she never felt sorry for was herself. The Potters had agreed to take her in again for a while. They were a nice old couple and it meant she's get fed and a bed, and maybe even some shoes. She had done last time they put her up, but that had been a while ago and the shoes had long-since fallen apart. What did she have to complain about?

Not far away Tiiffany and Agnes stood watching her as she scowled to herself. If anyone had looked really carefully they'd have noticed that the rain wasn't actually touching their black, pointy hats. It was not the sort of magic that either Granny Weatherwax or Nanny Ogg would have approved of, of course, but it wasn't the Century of the Fruitbat any more, after all.

"Are you sure she's the one?" asked Agnes.

"Aren't you?" said Tiffany.

"Oh, well, I think so," Agnes admitted.

"And I think there may be more to her than even we think."

"What do you mean?"

"You know that Granny always said that witching was just headology?"

"Most of it is."

"But not all of it," said Tiffany.

"No, not all of it," agreed Agnes, aware as she was of the fact that her clothes were bone-dry in the midst of the downpour.

"Well, when I look at little Moonlight I get a sense that she's important. Very, very important."

"So, are you going to take her home now?"

"Yes, if she'll come."

"Why wouldn't she? What reasons could she have?"

"I don't know, have you tried to look into her mind?"

"Yes, but I can't."

"Well, that should tell you all you need to know."

"Right. I'll come over in a couple of weeks to see how you're getting on."

"Or come back here tomorrow if she won't come with me."

"She'll come with you, she's not stupid.

"No," agreed Tiffany, "she is very far from being stupid."

"Bone," said Agnes, "au revoir. That's Genuan for…"

"I know what it means," said Tiffany, testily, "I'm not stupid either."

"Hmm, really, are you absolutely sure?" Then Agnes jumped on her broom and was gone.

Tiffany walked over to the little girl, who by now couldn't have been wetter had she been lying in the river. Her red hair was a dripping curtain over her face.

"Hello," said Tiffany, "are you Moonlight Smith?"

Two skinny arms came up and the hands at the end of them parted the curtains, to reveal two bright-green eyes looking up from a deeply-freckled, and deeply-suspicious, face.

"Yes, miss," said Moonlight, ever polite.

"My name is Tiffany Aching," said Tiffany Aching.

"I know who you are, miss."

"Do you think you know why I'm here?"

"No, miss," said Moonlight, "how can you be dry?" She really had no control over her own curiosity.

"I'm a witch," said Tiffany, "and I need an apprentice."

"Oh," said Moonlight.

Neither of them said anything for a few seconds and then Moonlight's eyes suddenly went wide.

"Oh! Do you want me?!" she asked, incredulously.

She was used to people prepared to take her on, for a while, often grudgingly, as one feels compelled to share part of a common burden. But she couldn't remember the last time that anyone had actually wanted her.

"Yes, would you like to come now?"

"Oh, yes, yes, yes please!" But then she paused and frowned. "But the Potters will be expecting me."

It surprised Tiffany that this little orphan's first thought was that she might be letting someone else down. She'd soon get used to it.

"I'm sure they'll understand, once I explain it to them," she reassured her, "is there anything else?"

"No, miss. Is it a long walk to where you live?"

From beneath her cloak she produced a hood and cape for the shivering child.

"Yes, it is," she said, "but we shalln't be walking. I've brought my broom."

"Yippee!" shrieked Moonlight, before clamping her hand over her mouth.

It was the most exhilarating thing she'd ever experienced. But then you don't have to be a destitute, orphaned drudge for a ride on a broomstick to be a stand-out thrill. She was so dizzy after it that Mistress Aching had to hold her up, or she's never have been able to walk to the cottage. And what a cottage! As soon as she walked through the door she was in love. It was so warm. The fire roaring in the hearth, and chairs round that lovely table, and such smells: a stew of some kind and bread and… The thoughts were falling over each other in Moonlight's head as they fought for attention.

"Ok," said Tiffany, "let's get you dried and changed and the we'll eat. You must be starving."

Normally when people say that it's just a figure of speech, but looking a Moonlight's bone-thin arms and legs, it wasn't much of an exaggeration. She took the girl up to the smaller of the two bedrooms, the one she'd already packed with children's clothes – people were often very generous to witches. Despite what she had said to Agnes she had never entertained any thought that Moonlight might reject her offer, any more than she thought she might be insane.

"This is your room," Tiffany said, pushing open the door.

"MY room?" said Moonlight, in a voice that suggested the words were simply too outlandish to belong in her mouth.

"Underwear and stockings in here," Tiffany continued, pointing to a small chest of drawers. "Dresses, cardigans, coats and shoes in the wardrobe, and towels in here," she concluded, patting a little chest at the foot of the bed.

"Shoes?!" was all the pop-eyed Moonlight could manage.

"Now, you dry your hair and put some clothes on and then we'll have something to eat."

As far as she could see –and she really could see, very clearly- up until about a minute ago, Moonlight's entire wardrobe consisted of one dress, so threadbare that it was virtually transparent and nothing else, not even drawers. Now, though she had a whole wardrobe-full of dresses to choose from, she was downstairs almost before Tiffany herself. It wasn't as though she wasn't fully-dressed, she was: dress, jumper, stockings, shoes, towel round her head and, no doubt, underwear as well. It was just that it looked as though she pulled on the first thing that came to hand. Even her stockings were different colours, and she was wearing odd shoes. There was clearly only one thing on Moonlight's mind, but she was very careful not to appear ungrateful.

"The room is lovely, thank you, miss," she said, eagerly watching Tiffany stirring the stew. "And the clothes are lovely too, miss," she continued, as she followed Tiffany taking the bread from the oven…

Tiffany thought that watching Moonlight eat was almost more nutritious than eating yourself. She didn't rush at it and gorge herself, as she'd expected, but rather ate slowly, savouring every mouthful, like a condemned man enjoying his final meal. Accompanied by a great many "Mmmms". And when she had wiped her plate clean with her last piece of bread, she didn't ask for more. Of course when Tiffany asked:

"Would you like another helping?"

She piped-up: "Yes, please, miss! It's delicious!"

It was only after fifths that she finally had to concede:

"No, thank you, miss, I'm completely full. It's the best meal I've ever eaten."

Tiffany was fairly sure this was another outlandish exaggeration, that was probably true.

Once Moonlight had drained her third mug of milk and Tiffany her single mug of ale –it was her one indulgence- they curled up opposite each other in the armchairs by the fire with mugs of tea.

"This has been my best day, ever, miss," said Moonlight, smiling that huge smile that you couldn't help copying.

Of course, a princess of Tsort might be impressed with a broomstick-ride over the Ramtops, but Tiffany was pretty sure she could have taken that out and it would still make Moonlight's top ten. She sympathised with the little girl for two main reasons: she could remember what it had been like to be her, and that Moonlight didn't want her sympathy.

"Moonlight's a bit formal to call you if we're going to be living together, I think, don't you?" she asked. Moonlight nodded, ever obedient. "So, what do your friends call you?"

"I don't have any friends, miss."

"What, none at all!?"

"No miss. I did have one once."

"And what did she call you?"

"Moo."

Tiffany wondered just how young Moo had been when she'd last had a friend.

"Do you mind if I call to you Moo?"

"No, miss, I'd like that, miss. What's your name, miss?"

"My name is Tiffany," she said sternly, "as well you know. But you may continue to call me Miss."

"Sorry, miss," said Moo, looking suitably abashed.

"No need to apologise. You were simply testing the waters, as I would have done. Don't do it again."

"No, miss," whispered Moo. She couldn't believe she'd risked the best chance she's ever had, just because she couldn't keep he trap shut.

"How old are you, Moo?"

"Nine miss, I think." It looked like she might have got away with it.

"And what do you think you are going to learn from me?"

"Lessons, miss."

Tiffany frowned, but this time the girl who wasn't sure how old she was 1, and probably hadn't had a friend since was a toddler, was being entirely ingenuous.

"Indeed," agreed Tiffany, "but they won't be about casting spells or flying broomsticks. At least not to start with. They'll be about how to measure the height of a tree without having to climb it; where Genua is and the language they speak there and the history of dwarfs and the trolls and the elves…" By now Moo's eyes were as big as plates. "But that's for tomorrow. Can you cook, Moo?"

"A little bit, miss."

"Then we'll start there, but now it's bedtime. You can leave your mug on the table and do the washing-up in the morning. You'll find nightdresses in the same chest as the underwear. Sleep well."

Moo was used to being dismissed, but she couldn't remember being happier to be sent to bed. She couldn't actually remember when she's last had a bed to be sent to.

When Tiffany came down in just after dawn she was very pleasantly unsurprised to find that Moo had not only done the washing-up but that she had also cleaned out the fire and re-laid it –though not re-lit it- and was sweeping the floor. What did surprise her was that she was wearing an apron, when Tiffany didn't realise she owned any.

"Moo, why have you got bare feet!?" she scolded.

Moo looked like someone used to being told off for doing nothing wrong and Tiffany felt immediately guilty. They said "sorry" simultaneously.

"You really shouldn't go barefoot, except in the Summer, "she hoped to explain, "unless the fire's on…"

She was really having trouble facing Moo's hurt look and finally had to concede:

"I'm sorry, darling, I shouldn't have snapped like that. Go and put some stockings on while I make breakfast."

Moo had been a bit upset by Mistress Aching talking to her so harshly, but had been more than mollified by her saying "sorry". People so seldom said that to her. But the fact that she had called her "darling" had almost made her cry. And moonlight didn't cry.

 **Chapter 3**

Patrick Thissel had had to drop out of Assassins School, literally, at midnight, from a fourth floor window, on a rope pursued by, well, assassins. His father, the former Lord Edgar Ravenswood had made what had suddenly, and terminally, turned out to be the wrong sort of friends. In such cases it was accepted practice –call it a charming old tradition if you will- to also eliminate any heirs, lest at some later time they should feel inclined to seek revenge. In truth Patrick a.k.a. Richard Ravenswood, had had about as much affection for his late father as for his last bout of Klatchian-deli belly. But he wasn't going to hang about to explain that to his pursuers, as he would likely find himself hanging about the walls of the Guild, by his neck.

No, he was much safer working behind the bar at The Duck and Run, though when he told people that they generally waited for the punchline. It wasn't technically in The Shades, but it was close enough to attract all the least-right sort of people. In fact the clientele of The Duck was all the people who'd been barred from everywhere else, including The Mended Drum and Biers. And that was fine with Patrick, because that was how he'd got the job. The landlady, Cutthroat Kate, had told him that the perfect employee for The Duck was, anyone who was prepared to work in The Duck. Patrick rather liked it. It certainly attracted a better sort of person than The Guild School, because that was a place for the sons of gentlemen. And, to be fair, between them Kate and he had managed to terrify most of the patrons into being, if not civilised, then slightly less barbarous.

All of which made his friendship with Lance-Constable Smite even more peculiar. Everything had been odd about it from the moment of their first meeting. He'd been walking back from Harga's House of Ribs one night –he was prepared to do just about anything for Kate, except eat her food- when he came upon a mugging. Eight thugs were laying into one poor Omnian. Omnians were unmistakable, which was what made them such easy targets. Given the odds, the Omnian was actually defending himself rather well, but that's all he was doing. He was fending off the blows; he wasn't hitting them back. And then they had him down and were sticking the boot in. Still, it was none of Patrick's business. He had three-quarters turned away when something stopped him. Could it have been the prick of conscience? Nah! He'd been educated out of that at school. No, these lumps were removing his waste products. They were so inept that they offended his professional pride, and then one of the thugs spotted him:

"Oi, what d'you fink your lookin at!?"

Patrick shrugged. He remembered thinking: "Oh, well, I could use the exercise."

The _fight_ had lasted about twenty seconds. Three years' unarmed-combat training at The Assassins Guild against eight Morpork maulers was hardly a contest. He was so annoyed that he hadn't had a workout that he'd been tempted to take his frustration out on the hapless muggers when instead he did something he couldn't explain even now, even to himself. He picked up the Omnian and took him to Morpork Mercy.

There had been time; not that long before, when it would have been kinder to leave the poor devil in the street rather than take him to a hospital. Now though, with the advent of Igor doctors, Omnian nurses and generous endowments from the Vimes Foundation, hospitals in general – and Morpork Mercy in particular- were places of caring and cleanliness; and even healing

The green lamp was burning brightly over the door of Urgency when he got there and there was an Igor and a nurse waiting at the door with a gurney. He supposed that it was only natural that, what with his upbringing and all, he should be suspicious of people who wanted simply to take care of others. But he was suspicious of people who simply wanted to take care of other people.

They wheeled the patient into an examination room so that Igor could examine him and the nurse could ask a few preliminary questions:

"Is he a friend of yours," she asked.

"Nnnnn?"

"The patient; is he a friend?" she repeated

"I…No, he was attacked. I helped him."

"That was kind of you. Would you like to stay with him?"

"Er, yes. If I may."

"You are a very good man."

Patrick really didn't give a damn about the patient. The nurse whom he'd just met was simply the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life, by a factor of… beyond his ability to calculate. His brain felt like it was rattling around inside his head so that he could barely focus on Igor who had started to speak. Even when he did manage to focus on Igor's face, he wasn't sure he had. That was often the way with Igors.

"Hello, thur," said the doctor, waving his hand in front of Patrick's face, "are you there?"

"Oh, yes, sorry. How is he, doctor?"

"Well, thur, motht of hith woundth are thuperfithial and I don't think there are any broken boneth, but we'll know better when we get him to Ecth-ray."

"Who's Ecth-ray?"

"He'th an imp, he looks at boneth through the fleth and theeth if they're broken."

"He sounds very useful."  
"He'th indithpenthible," Igor confirmed, "what'th you friend'th name?"

"I don't know," Patrick had to admit.

"I don't think he doth either," said Igor, "he hath concuthion, and a thlight cathe of amnethia. We'll be keeping him in, at leatht overnight. Jutht ath a precauthion, you underthtand?"

"Yes, of course, doctor."

Patrick had stopped listening. Behind him he could hear the nurse, correction, love of his life, talking to his new _friend_.

"Smite, can you hear me? It's me, Blister."

Patrick hadn't known much then about Omnian naming conventions. He knew a great deal more about them now, and he still thought they were bonkers. The most beautiful creature in creation was called: Blister the Eyes of the Doubters with the Brilliance of thy Faith.

Of course he went back the next day to visit his _friend_ , who was insanely grateful. Omnians weren't used to the kindness of strangers, at least not ones who weren't fellow Omnians. Then again, who was? This made Patrick curious about his own small act of kindness. Luckily, though, Patrick's new _friend's_ girlfriend was grateful too. And Nurse Shame's best friend's friend was Nurse Blister.

So, when Smite was discharged they stayed in touch. Patrick had never wasted a moment's thought on wondering if it was right to simply use people just get what he wanted, so he had no qualms about using Smite for his own selfish ends. And then, for almost untraceable reasons, he found he liked him.

It wasn't his straightforward honesty –though he did find that refreshing, when he discovered it was genuine- or his courage, loyalty, sense of honour… all qualities he's never before encountered in anyone; it was his absolutely deadpan sense of humour. They'd been meeting up for weeks and Patrick was beginning to suspect that perhaps he didn't have a sense of humour at all. Then one night they were in Harga's, on their customary stools, and he'd asked him about his day.

"Well," said Smite, "Cheery Littlebottom was a bit short with me, again…"

Patrick looked, very closely, but there wasn't a flicker in the eyes, no hint of a raised eyebrow or flicker of a smile.

"And Igor keeps looking at me in a funny way."

Patrick had frowned at that blank look, and then Smite had winked at him, and he knew he had a mate.

And there was another thing: he'd thought Omnians were forbidden to drink alcohol.

"Oh, no," said Smite, "we're not forbidden; we just don't."

"Are you yanking my chain?!" exclaimed Patrick "Are you seriously telling me you're allowed to drink alcohol; you just choose not to?"  
"Yes."

"That's more insane than boiling people alive in a giant metal turtle!"

The very next night he had taken his friend to The Duck to introduce him to alcohol; at the far end of the bar.

"So, what'll it be?" asked Patrick, from his side of the bar.

"I have no idea," replied Smite, quite genuinely.

Patrick had to sympathise as he was at a bit of a loss himself. What on the Disc do you give someone for their first alcoholic drink?

"Right, baby steps. We'll start with a pint of ale."

"Oh, I couldn't drink a whole pint!" said Smite.

But that's exactly what he did, in one go. He smacked his lips, wiped his mouth and said:

"Well, that was nice, but I can't see what all the fuss is about."

"Oooookay, hmmm," Patrick sort of said, "well, that's just one variety…"

"Oh, there's another? Perhaps I should try that too. I'm very open-minded."

"Are you, indeed?" said Patrick, assuming Smite was just at it again.

Over the next three hours Smite opened his mind to seventeen different ales, –two of which he had to revisit- ranging in alcohol level from four to ten percent, without being either up nor down. On a couple of occasions he'd attracted spectators.

"I think," reflected Smite, "that I may prefer that wheaty Swartzbergsteinbeir, you know, the one from Überwald, or possibly the more hoppy Oo Aar Garmy's Old Riggwelter, which I think is from the Ramtops. Perhaps I should try them both again, just to make sure."

"Don't you feel drunk at all?"

"I don't know, what does that feel like?"

"If you did, you'd know. Ok, let's look at a different approach."

"You know me."

"No, actually, mate, I really don't think I do. Here, try this."

"What is it?"

"Vodka, from Blüdivostock."

"Well, that doesn't taste of anything," said Smite after knocking back a generous measure.

"True," Patrick conceded, "try this, it's whisky."

"Yeeuch, that's horrible!"

"Should you ever encounter a Nac mac Feegle do not, under any circumstances, repeat that. Any affect?"

"None that I can feel."

"Well, that would kind of be the definition, wouldn't it?"

Smite gave him a _look_ that made him laugh. The booze was clearly having some effect, however minimal.

"What about this?" he said, handing over a gin. Smite spat it out. "Ok, I'll give you that."

His opinions of other drinks were: brandy=better, rum=much better, scumble=now we're getting somewhere.

In the end there were only the two of them in the bar. Kate had cleared the pub and cleaned up around them. Patrick had broken up so many fights without breaking any bottles over anyone's heads that she figured she owed him at least a couple. He looked around the empty bar and decided he needed a drink himself. Patrick never, ever, ever, even once drank on duty, as his life might depend on it. Still, he thought he was probably safe with Lance-Constable Smite, because if he wasn't, then the whole concept of trust had no meaning.

He brought out a bottle of Chateau d'If 1789 from under the counter and showed it to Smite.

"What's that?" he asked.

"This, my friend," said Patrick, and paused for dramatic effect, "is wine." In spite of the delivery Smite appeared unimpressed, so Patrick continued:

"Made from the Mer-notmuch grapes on the slopes of Bored-Oh in Genua and aged in oak casks for twenty years…"

"Sounds nice," conceded Smite.

 _Nice_?! thought Patrick, _Nice, is it? I'll give you Nice, my lad!_

This was a once in a lifetime experience and wasn't to be rushed. He uncorked the wine, smelled it to check the nothing tragic had happened, and he then took two glasses from under the bar. He warmed them over a candle and then poured wine into each and handed one to Smite.

"No, no," he said, as Smite made to gulp it the way he'd gulped everything else, "this is to be savoured. First you must inhale the aroma, get a bucketful, as they say in Genua."

Smite dutifully smelled the wine as he'd been instructed.

"Oh, that's nice."

 _Nice!?_ again, _I'll Nice you, garçon!_

"Now, be careful," said Patrick, "hold it in your mouth and savour it, and remember that the second taste is the true taste."

Again Smite did as he was bidden and managed:

"Dad id di mode boodibble fing…" Before he keeled over backwards and was unconscious before he hit the floor.

Patrick rather assumed that the cause was the cumulative effect of enough booze to kill two men rather than one mouthful of wine, but you never knew. And, on the bright side, though he didn't like to drink on his own, he couldn't let the wine go to waste. That would simply be wrong. Smite had been teaching him about "right" and "wrong" and "good" and "evil". He hadn't quite got it yet, but he was trying. He raised his glass towards the prostrate Smite.

"Santé," he said.

 **Chapter 4**

Sergeant Boltmaker had warned him to be worried, but when Harry entered Commander Carrot's office, after knocking, he hadn't looked worried; he'd looked unhappy. And that was worrying. He'd never seen Carrot look unhappy before, in fact he'd rather assumed he wasn't capable of it.

"Is there something wrong, sir?" he asked, even though it was obvious there was.

"Yes, Harry," said Carrot, "I've let myself get distracted. I've let all this new responsibility, both professional and personal, take me too far from the streets."

"But that's my job, sir," said Harry, "mine and Stronginthearm's."

Captain Hardsven Stronginthearm was head of the Night Watch as Harry was head of the day. Carrot had hired Harry even though he'd been sacked as Captain of The Watch in Sto Lat amid dark accusations of corruption and backhanders. It was rumoured that Harry wasn't open to either.

"Then you may have let yourselves get too far away too."

To an outsider this might have seemed like a mild rebuke; it wasn't, far from it.

"Are you talking about something specific, sir?"

Carrot didn't answer him, instead he said:

"We have a meeting with Lord Vetinari in an hour."

"Oh, dear," said Harry. When The Patrician wanted to see them, it was seldom good news.

"And the Duke of Ankh has paid me a visit."

"Oh, DEAR." It had been a long time since Sir Samuel Vimes had called round to his old nick on a social call, so this sounded like bad news, probably really bad news.

"And you're coming to dinner tonight."

"OH, DEAR!" This time he'd actually only thought it. He'd been for a meal with Mr. and Mrs. Ironfoundersson once before and whenever, in an unguarded moment, he recalled it, it still gave him indigestion.

It wasn't an order, of course, because Carrot never gave orders, he simply described the way things were going to be in the future and people did their best to make sure he was right.

"I have some things still to do," he said, and Harry could see that only iron control was keeping the exasperation from his voice. And then, only just.

"Make sure that Cheery and Igor know you're here and then get along to the palace and I'll meet you there."

He'd been dismissed.

All the way there Harry had tried to think of what it had been on the streets that had been so bad and yet that he'd somehow completely missed. There had been trouble the previous year with a lot of young trolls going berserk in public places, causing huge damage and resulting in several fatalities among dwarfs and humans. That had threatened to go really bad at one point.

Eventually he'd traced it to a new troll mob pushing bad _slab_ cut with _slate_. But he'd helped Chrysophrase sort that out. He'd even got a commendation from The Patrician –and the city a small, unexplained lava field just beyond the walls. That had been a much more pleasant trip than this one was likely to be.

Then a couple of months back there'd been that simmering dwarf feud that looked like it might boil over. That had started after that big influx of dwarfs from Copperhead a couple of years before and he'd never found out the reason behind it, nor would any dwarfs discuss it, not even Carrot. Anyway, that had eventually, and inevitably, come down to mineral-rights. He's sorted that out too. Of course he'd had to involve Carrot and eventually get Sir Samuel to ask the Low King to send an Arbiter of Dwarf Law, but it was all sorted out, and without bloodshed. Well, without much bloodshed. Though with much muttering into beards and a great many grudges/mining-claims hatched, to be passed down from generation to generation.

As for humans, of course there was the usual level of rape, robbery and murder. Actually, most of the theft and killing was legally approved, and Guild-sanctioned. But there had been no reported rise in the background level of human evil. If anything it had fallen, in spite of the population looking as though it had actually grown.

And with the smaller minority races; he couldn't see how any of them could possibly be a problem. There had been a rumour a while back of a rogue vampire having claimed several victims, but either it was only a rumour or it had been taken care of without unnecessary fuss; either by the Black Ribboners or by the vampires on the Watch itself. Sally had been the pioneer, but there were several now; and also: werewolves, golems, zombies, banshees, gargoyles, bogeymen, gnomes… The Watch genuinely was an equal-opportunities employer and he was proud of that. It was a shame that so few others had chosen to follow its example.

There had been another rumour of a new, even, smaller minority having arrived in the city. This seemed to be based on the mysterious, almost miraculous, disappearance of a number of cows from well-guarded stockyards and large quantities of whisky from secure warehouses. This had been put down to the arrival of some Nac Mac Feegle. He couldn't see this really being a BIG problem. In any case, if the Wee Free Men really had come to town, what was he, or anyone else supposed to do about it, stamp it out? He knew someone in Sto Lat who had once tried to stamp on a Nac Mac Feegle and nearly lost a leg. No, it wasn't any of them so, unless it was elves or orcs –and surely everyone would have known if it had been either of them- he was stumped.

Mostly the different races policed themselves: the dwarfs in accordance with Mining Law, the trolls according to Clan Dues and humans by the will of the Guilds. The Watch existed only around the edges, to protect communities from those within their ranks that they could not, or would not, protect themselves from. It had actually been Lord Vetinari himself who, in a quiet moment, had explained this to him:

"I rule the people and you police them because that is what they wish us to do. Should at any time they no longer wish us to do so, there is absolutely nothing either of us could do about it."

In the end he had to admit that he was completely flummoxed. He was already in trouble; he was soon to be in a great deal more, and he had no idea why. A policeman's lot is not a happy one.

He was standing in the ante-chamber outside The Patrician's office when Carrot arrived at precisely nine fifty-nine. He looked unhurried as he straightened his gleaming breastplate and removed his helmet. Harry didn't even have time to say "hello" before Drumknott opened the door and beckoned them inside, before disappearing.

Lord Vetinari was sitting at his desk, busying himself with some papers. Harry followed Carrot's lead as he advanced to within a couple of feet of the desk and saluted. Vetinari didn't look up. There were two, comfortable-looking chairs just off to the side, but he didn't invite them to sit. Drumknott returned with a tray and poured The Patrician some tea. He continued to work while he let it cool. Eventually he put down his pen, picked up his cup and sat back, looking at them for the first time.

"I won't invite you to join me," he said, taking a sip and ramming home the point of not inviting them to sit.

"I received a visit this morning," he began, in the tones of someone whose next words were likely to be: from your badly house-trained dog, "from a number of civic and community leaders."

It was clear that he could barely entertain the presence of the words in his mouth. Harry had to fight back the words that were trying to jump into his. Luckily, Carrot said them instead.

"I didn't know we had any civic and community leaders, my lord."

"Indeed," agreed Vetinari, "until today I was not aware of their existence either. I'm not sure I am now. It was a most…"he paused, "what was the word, Drumknott?"

" _Seedy_ , my lord?"

"Ha ha," laughed Vetinari, mirthlessly, "was that the word I used? No, in was a most, _unenlightening_ conversation."

"And what do they represent, exactly?" wondered Carrot.

"Well, the _civis_ , naturally: the city and/or its citizens. And of course the wider community, though I admit that that is a far vaguer concept; I have a list here."

He gestured to Drumknott, who handed him a piece of paper. The Patrician took it as if it were a rather soiled handkerchief, and looked it over.

"Ah, yes: _The Concerned Citizens Committee, The Residents' Council, The Local Businessmen's Association_ …it goes on," he said clearly tired of it, and handing it back to Drumknott, who handed it to Harry, who assumed he was supposed to keep it. "There are names on there too, perhaps you should look into them."

"Yes, my lord," said Carrot. "My lord, how did these _civic leaders_ become civic leaders?"

Harry thought trying to involve The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork in a discussion about the legitimacy of unelected leaders might possibly not be an entirely wise thing to do.

"To that, alas, I cannot speak. Another thing you might want to investigate. Oh, and one further thing, I have recently begun to see a strange graffito: a large, black "X". Do you know what it means?"

"No, my lord," said Carrot, "I don't."

"I think I do, my lord," Harry piped-up.

"Really," said Vetenari, "do tell."

"I've heard it's the ancient symbol of Ankh-Morpork," he said, feeling he was on safe ground, and there wasn't much of that here, "something to do with a line for each side of the city, and they cross at the river."

"Is that so," said Vetinari, "how charming. Then I shall detain you no further."

As they walked down the stairs he turned to Carrot.

"You both know what it means, don't you?"

"Yes."

"And it doesn't mean what I said, does it?"

"No."

"Then what does it mean?"

"Harry, if you were really angry and wanted people to read about it but didn't know how to write, what would you do?"

Havelock Vetinari looked out of his window over the huge expanse of Ankh-Morpork. It was a terrifying site.

"There is evil out there," he mused.

"As always, my lord," said Drumknott.

"Thank you for reminding me of the obvious; such times remind me of how valuable you are."

"My honour is to serve, my lord."

Vetinari and Drumknott had been at school together, though Drumknott had been a scholarship boy. Their "master and servant" act was one that no one would ever see through; an Assassin's training could be useful in so many ways. When the pause had gone on for sufficiently long, Drumknott ventured something more:

"I have heard it said that for evil to triumph all that is required is that good men do nothing, my lord."

"Ah, would that that were the case," sighed Vetinari. He could see the unhappy figures of Carrot and Harry separate at the bridge.

"There go two good men who are going to do their best, and in both cases it is a very good best, yet it shall still not be enough."

"As you say, my lord," Drumknott agreed, "though perhaps if not quite such good men should also lend a hand…"

"Hmmm, interesting point. Which is my next meeting?"

"Madame Fifi, from the Guild of Seamstresses, my lord. Should I bring more tea?"

"No. Coffee, I think, one of the better roasts, and perhaps a decent cognac. Oh, and I'd like to meet Leonardo afterwards. I wonder what he's up to today."

"I shall attended to it immediately, my lord."

 **Chapter 5**

When, after a couple of weeks, and true to her word, Agnes came to visit she was appalled at how Moo was being mistreated.

"How can you starve her in this way?!" she demanded of Tiffany. It was a subject very close to her heart.

"I can't feed her any more than she'll eat," said Tiffany, "and she eats more than Nanny."

"Round things," said Agnes who, however much she tried, was incapable of swearing.

Yet when they sat down to lunch she saw the truth of the words. There was a rabbit-pie and potatoes and carrots and peas. Agnes noticed that she ate almost half of everything and Moo ate most of the rest, while Tiffany ate virtually nothing. Though she then brought out a beef-pie, with parsnips and onions and cabbage, that all disappeared too, even though Tiffany ate very little and Agnes ate less than half. While Moo was doing the washing-up she apologised.

"I'm sorry that I misjudged you. She must be costing you a fortune."

Witches were very well rewarded for their services, especially the medical ones. People paid them in: food, drink, clothes, gardening, house-repairs… They even sometimes paid them in money, but only if they had nothing better to offer.

"It's just that she's so stick-thin."

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" Tiffany agreed.

"Where does she put it? She eats as much as I do and she's about the size of my arm."

"Gods, she's about the size of _my_ arm!"

"Do you want to lose the only friend you have?" scowled Agnes.

"Ok, sorry, it's just difficult to see how so much food can go into something so tiny without it growing any larger."

Agnes had blamed her own size on everything from enormous bones to slothful metabolism, but the truth was she ate too much, and she ate too much because she loved food. She'd always rather be fat than hungry. But to be able to eat like Moo and still be thin… Oh, jealousy, thy name is Agnes.

From the kitchen, where the tiny thing had been washing-up, and in spite of their lowered voices, there came another voice. Grown much more confident in just a couple of weeks it said:

"It can hear you, you know?"

"Come in, Moo," said Tiffany, with a laugh.

And in she came. Still as skinny as a pipe-cleaner, but otherwise almost unrecognisable from the hopeless little girl in the playground. She was a picture in her pretty, red and white dress and matching cardy, set off by her long, ginger braids. Her big green eyes complemented her little, freckled face. But when she smiled it was like someone striking a match in a cave.

"Moo, how would you like a little trip out today?"

The smile ignited: "That would be lovely, miss."

She'd often wondered what the word _perky_ really meant, now she knew

"We're going to visit Nanny Ogg."

She'd also often wondered what it meant when people said things like "her face fell". Now she knew that too.

One of the good things about flying by broomstick was that, if there were two of you, you didn't have to talk. If you were up front then you could turn round and talk to your passenger, but if you were pillion then the wind would snatch your words away faster than you could say them. Normally when they were flying Moo only held on to Tiffany lightly; this time she clung on so tightly it almost hurt. She could even feel the vibrations of Moo talking, though whether it was to Tiffany or simply to herself she couldn't tell. Probably just as well.

Agnes was waiting for them in front of Nanny's as they landed. When they entered the cottage Nanny was sitting in the farthest corner of the sitting-room, using the fire and a single candle to make herself appear all the more mysterious and sinister. Moo tried to hide behind Tiffany's skirts.

"Cackle, cackle!" said Nanny, but she wasn't joking.

"We've brought her here, just as you asked," said Tiffany.

"I didn't arsk," Nanny corrected.

The two young witches didn't know quite what to do with themselves, or even if they were supposed to be there. But with Nanny in this mood they weren't going to leave until they were told to.

"Come 'ere, child," commanded Nanny, from the corner. Moo, of course, did as she was told and Nanny Ogg leaned ominously out of the shadows.

Now, there was the Nanny Ogg that Lancre thought it knew: the jovial, old matriarch with the crab-apple face, colourful past and huge extended family. Of course there was another Nanny Ogg that terrified daughters-in-law (and now granddaughters-in-law) had come to know and tremble before. Who was sort of related. And then there was Gytha Ogg, the wytch in the gingerbread house, who wasn't related at all. It was this one who now spoke.

"What's your name, my pretty?"

Tiffany and Agnes both felt the hairs rise on the backs of their necks, but Moo now seemed completely unafraid.

"My name is Moonlight, Nanny."

They didn't know how long they simply waited while Nanny and Moo just looked at each other. It wasn't as though it was some wild staring contest; it was more like a conversation without the talking, but with lots of smiles. In the end Agnes got bored.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

Tiffany shrugged. "Why not?"

As Nanny appeared to be in some sort of trance they decided to go to town with the cream and sugar – though Lancre wasn't a very big town- and raid the biscuit jar too.

"Do you think they're talking to each other in some way?" asked Agnes.

"Search me," said Tiffany, "though I can't imagine what else they might be doing. I wonder what sort of berries are in this biscuit, they're lovely."

"Bilberries," said Agnes.

"How do you know?"

"Because I made them."

"Really? They're delicious. You never made any for me."

"Yes, I did," said Agnes, guiltily.

"Well, you never _gave_ any of them to me."

"Didn't I? Then I must have given them to the poor."

"The poor seem to eat a lot of biscuits around here."

"Never mind that, do you want one of these, they look great." Agnes held up a small, golden oblong covered in sugar.

"No thank you," said Tiffany, as Agnes took a bite of her biscuit and then froze.

"Oh, Gods, it's chocolate! It's a chocolate biscuit in Lancre. Chocolate, all the way from Howandaland. Tiff, you have got to taste this…" then she paused. "I don't believe it! You made chocolate biscuits, and you gave them to Nanny rather than me?!"

The wounds were obvious on Agnes' face, but they were also clearly cut into the deepest parts of her soul:

"You vile traitor, you darkest of enemies, you…"

"No, no, you don't understand," said a flustered Tiffany, "she's an old lady and I just thought…"

Just then Nanny and Moo emerged from their trances, which was just as well for everyone.

"Right you," she said to Moo, "you get yourself outside for a bit and we'll call you when we want you.

"And you can 'ave one of these biscuits with the funny stuff in it," she added, giving Moo one of Tiffany's _Chocolate Surprises_.

Agnes' eyes followed it out the door as Moo, as always, did as she was told.

"Get, me a drink!" demanded Nanny. "No, not tea, you daft girl," she shouted at Agnes.

"Yes, ale'll do to start with," she said as Tiffany handed her a jug, from which she took a huge swig and then seemed to settle down.

"Now here's what I know, my chicks, and it's not much.

"Something's narsty's brewing. It's something that's always been about, it's just more of it. But there's another thing, and it's a thing like what Him said: it's growing and getting worse, like a sickness. But it's also like a thing, a big bad thing, and it's gonna get bigger and badder, and worser and worser. And I don't know how or why but I think the only way to stop it is our little Moo."

"What!?" exclaimed Agnes and Tiffany, almost simultaneously.

"Oh, come on, girls," laughed Nanny, "that little scrap of skin is more witch than the three of us together. And we're three good uns."

It was no more than confirmation of what Tiffany almost knew anyway. And if Nanny and Tiffany were that convinced, then Agnes wasn't going to gainsay them.

"So, what is this _thing_?" asked Tiffany.

"Sorry, dearie," said Nanny, "that's beyond my powers, but I know I won't be around to see it, if that's any help."

"Can you tell exactly when?" asked Agnes.

"No, love, it's against the rules, but we can't see that clear anyway, you know that. Not awful long, but not real soon either. Is that any help?"

"A bit, Nanny, thanks," said Tiffany.

"Now, can I see that little spark of ginger hair again? She fairly cheered me up, and I'm normally a miserable old baggage. And don't you two go agreeing neither," she laughed as they both began to nod.

Tiffany went and called Moo back in and Nanny asked her over to sit on her knee. This time it was the Nanny who was little more than a one-toothed grin in the centre of a lot of wrinkles, so Moo went. Though Tiffany suspected that she'd have gone anyway. Once she was settled on her knee Nanny began:

"Let me tell you about the time Little Aggie went to be a singer in the Opry in the Big City…"

"Oh, Gods," said Agnes, slapping her head while Tiffany giggled.

"Would you like a biscuit, my pet?"

"Yes, please, Nanny," said Moo, "could I have one of the ones with the bilberries in them?"

Agnes had a little smile to herself.

"Course you can, my chick. And then I'll tell you about Little Tiff and the Wee Free Men."

"Oh, no…" moaned Tiffany.

"And you haven't heard the last about the biscuits either," added Agnes.

 **Chapter 6**

After her morning nap Angua had played with Ire for a while until, by arrangement, one of the Interchangeable Emmas had arrived to take her to the hall for one night. The children both loved staying with Sir Samuel and Lady Sybil. Wolfie because he could play with Little Sam; and Ironhammer because all the Emmas made such a fuss over her. Ire seemed to be one of the few people who could tell them apart. She supposed it was a bit like the way Sally could not only distinguish between different Igors, but also ask after the health of related Igors, and the health and whereabouts of their related body-parts. Perhaps that was an ethnic minority thing.

Being from one herself, Angua was very sensitive to how minority races were perceived and valued. Dwarfs had been a problem from the beginning. Any race that quaffs a lot of beer, lusts after gold, appears to have no women and eats rats is always likely to have an image problem. Especially when it is as short of temper as it is of stature and doesn't bother with concealed carry. Yet now they were not only accepted but valued, because they could make any thing, from weapons to houses, out of anything: stone, wood, iron…gold, better than anyone else. They never tried to cheat you; never went back on their word… And if you ever tried to do any of those things to them; you never got the opportunity to do it twice.

Trolls were accepted, simply because there was nothing else you could do with them. Enough dwarfs could bring down a troll and even kill it, but they would do so only in battle, never sneakily in a back street. Humans simply didn't have the discipline, or the courage. Also while humans and dwarfs might have over-lapping desires on occasion, especially when it came to gold, trolls simply didn't want the same things. Sure, dwarfs might want phosphoric acid for the purposes of etching metal, and humans to throw in someone's face, but neither wanted to drink it, at least not more than once. And not in the quantities trolls did.

As for the Minor Minorities; they were mostly too small to be worth bothering about, for anyone. When she'd first _come out_ there had been a few wolf-whistles and howls, and combinations of both. Then one day in Sator Square a pack of young men did it once too often. She had favoured them with a snarl. A full, head-transforming , burning-eyed, maw full of slavering fangs snarl. People hadn't known that she could do that at will, if she chose to.

There were a lot of people there to see it, but that was as nothing compared to the number of people who claimed to have been there to see it. She never received as much as a vaguely anti-Lupine comment after that. Nor did any other werewolf – or even anyone whose eyebrows met in the middle. She knew because they kept in touch using, of all things, the twilight howl. Some things are just bred in the fur and nothing to be done.

It was different for vampires, of course, it always was, no skulking around alleys looking for bone and trying to avoid dogs for them. There it was. Her best friend in the world; the best friend she'd ever had; the friend that she trusted not only with her own life but with the lives of her children…was a vampire. The very word made her carnassials ache. She hated vampires.

There, she'd said it, if only to herself. Well, not all of them, of course not: Otto Chriek, Or Prince Vladimir Nicolai Jozef Illyich-Davidovich Ulyanov-Romanoff Vossarionovich – aka Vlad- who worked the rooves on the Nightwatch. Or Lucy –aka Donna Lucrezia la Gioconda di Magenta i Solferino; a soul so tortured by her past that, as punishment, she had chosen to work in an abattoir and live in the cellar where its waste drained into the Ankh. Until Sally had found her and persuaded her that good works were better than mere penance. Now she worked at Bernie's in the day, at the Sisters of Kindness in the evening and then through the night as a cleaner at Morpork Mercy.

She'd had Lucy round a couple of times for tea with Sally and all she could remember about her was: her shyness, almost childlike prettiness, skeletally-thin frame, paper-white skin, raven-black hair, giant, almost purple, eyes, incredibly long eyelashes…and bone-crushingly strong handshake. But that was the way with vampires: what you saw was never what you got.

Most people never met a vampire, at least not outside of Überwald, but then most people never went to the Opera or to society balls. Even Otto couldn't attend a murder-scene in The Shades in anything less than white-tie, tails and a cape. For every hard-working flatfoot like Vlad, or pathetic, wretched penitent like Lucy –asking forgiveness of gods she didn't even believe in- there were a hundred sociopaths moving graciously and effortlessly around the city's most fashionable salons..

She could almost hear herself and how she would sound: Oh, I don't mind gargoyles; remember what it was like with them pigeons before they arrived? We could do with a few more of them if you ask me, and they're so quiet, you never hear a peep out of them. But vampires, well…

When some vampires had moved out of the ballrooms and into the streets, to earn an honest, and modest, bite, _The Post_ had briefly tried to whip up a "bloodsuckers in our midst" panic with one of its typically vicious campaigns. However, when the scions of a number of ancient and noted Überwald families –including the Lady Margalotta and Sally's mum- had explained to Lord Bothermore that _polite society_ could, if pushed, become really rather impolite, the tone changed. Suddenly it was "They don't want a pint from you; they want to take you for a pint."

But what could she do? It wasn't thought it was pelt. And it was made all the worse for her being able to hear Sally preparing dinner in the kitchen downstairs. With two naps under her pelt and the prospect of a lovely, child-free evening and a delicious meal ahead, she suddenly felt a wonderful rush of mischievous girlishness that she had felt since…well, ever.

She concentrated, closed her glands and suppressed her scent. Then she slowed her heartbeat to less than one a minute and took a breath deep enough to last five. Only then did she slide out of bed.

Initially she thought she should only walk on her toes, but then decided that that put too much strain on her calves, which might require a heartbeat, or even a breath. Instead she tried a trick that she's picked up from Sally. She's noticed that her friend could walk across a dry floor in wet feet and leave barely a mark. She'd practised and practised and know she could more or less do it. Of course when Sally did it it looked both graceful and effortless. Angua didn't care how she looked but she knew this walk required no effort, at least physically; mentally it was a different matter but that didn't matter. It was as close to perfect as she was capable of.

For thirty seconds she'd carried a fly on her hand while the fly had moved less than the hand. Her only worry had been that there might be a creaky floorboard that could give her away. But, no, she'd reached the bottom of the stairs and all she could hear was Sally chopping. It was all stone now, without any possible creeks, just a few more steps and she'd actually be able to see her.

"Please tell me you are not trying to creep-up on me, "said Sally without turning round.

"Awww! How did you know!?"

"Where would you like me to start: the deep breath? The slowed heart? The cautious toe on the floor?"

"How can you possibly know that?!" Angua demanded.

"I'm a vampire," said Sally, "I'm sorry, did I forget to mention that? And put some clothes on; we evil bloodsuckers prefer our victims to be wearing a nice nighty. It's like garnish on your steak, or something."

"Clothes shmoes," said Angua, "I'm not the only one seen prowling the streets naked when decent folk ought to be in bed."

Sally went on chopping vegetables, a rare sight in Angua's house, but a welcome one.

"Sally…" continued Angua from the doorway.

"Yes, Angie." Grrr! Sally knew she hated that.

"You know how you said earlier that you once didn't sleep for two years," shallow breaths, shallow breaths, "well, was that really true?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

"No so far as I'm aware. Why didn't you sleep for two years?"

"I was busy."

"What could you possibly be doing that kept you so busy you couldn't sleep for two years?!"

"Oh, you know how hard it is for us to sleep. Can't find the right coffin. Find the right coffin, but can't find the right soil. Find the right coffin and the right soil, and the crypt's too draughty…"

"Doesn't sound like enough, what else were you doing?"

"Oh, the usual: terrifying villages, sucking blood, ravishing virgins –though only ones in nice nighties- that sort of thing. You'd be amazed how it eats into your schedule…"

"SALLY?"

"I was in love! There, satisfied?"

Angua was not merely, not satisfied, she was dumbfounded, at least for a while. And that was probably just as well. Anything she might have said would likely have been: pointless, stupid, hurtful, or all three, or worse. Vampire's didn't fall in love. They often passed on their genes by methods other than fang but only, like all nobility, for reasons of advancing their family interests. Never for something as tawdry and plebeian as love. It would have been unspeakably vulgar and would have been shunned by all the very worst people. Once Angua had had a long enough pause she knew she had to speak.

"You've never said anything about this to me before," she offered quietly, not sure quite what tone to adopt.

"No, I haven't, have I?" said Sally.

"I'm sorry, I just wondered if you wanted to talk about it now."

"No, I bloody-well don't!" snapped Sally, "and don't you even dare try to make a joke out of that."

"Ok, but you're my best friend…"

"And you're my only friend."

"And you're mine. Will you ever want to tell me?"

"I promise to tell you everything before I die."

Angua wasn't as easily fooled as most marks though.

"Do you promise to tell me before I die?"

"Yes, that too. It's almost as though you don't trust me," accused Sally.

"With my life," said Angua "but not to tell me everything about yours… Let's leave that for another time and some…vine! What are you making?"

"Soup, vegetable," said Sally, "and I shall have some more…vine, thank you." She drained her glass and handed it over.

"What sort of soup?" asked Angua, refilling Sally's glass and handing it back. "Just vegetable?"

"No, no, vegetable and cheese."

Angua wasn't always sure when Sally was messing with her so she decided to play along.

"And what is the main course?"

"Fish, and more vegetables."

"And vegetables for pudding?"

"Oh, no. For dessert there is fruit and cream and eggs."

"Right, thank you, I get it, you're making a meal. It's like asking a dwarf about his bricks and mortar when he's building a house. I shall leave you to your art while I go for walkies."

"Ang, I'm sorry," said Sally, relenting, "you just stirred-up some emotions, and you know that's hard for me."

"I know, Sal."

"I'll tell you soon, I promise; when I know myself."

"I'm friends if you are." Sally nodded. "So are the vegetables, fish, cheese, fruit, eggs and cream just going to be boiled-up together in one pot? That's what Carrot would do."

"I haven't decided yet; I'm still creating."

"In that case I shall go and make myself even more beautiful than I already am."

With that she swept out of the room, which isn't easy with no clothes on, but easier if you have a built-in animal grace.

"Well, it's a lot of hair to brush," called Sally, just as she reached the bottom of the staircase. Angua smiled; they were definitely still best-friends. So she nipped back down.

"Is there any chance that you might give up two more years of sleep to help me take care of the children; so that I can get some?"

Sally tossed her hair: "Sleep never bothered me anyway."

 **Chapter 7**

Gods know why, but for some reason Patrick felt duty bound to accompany Smite to a Thursday service at the Queer Street Church of the Great Om (Reformed). He thought it was only fair. If Smite was prepared to try to understand his ways, against all advice to the contrary, then the least he could do was reciprocate. That he also hoped Bliss might be there was entirely co-incidental. Oh, come on, he couldn't fantasise about someone called Blister.

Indeed there she was on the other side of the aisle, in her pretty white-cotton dress and see-through veil. Now there were some mad religions on the Disc –well, madd-er at least- and Patrick thought that up on Dunmanifestin they played with people for their sport. It was as though there was a competition to see who could come up with the daftest idea that people would still be prepared to follow. Mass-Lam the Contradictory decreed that all women should be swathed entirely in black at all times so that they could hardly see, and barely walk –it was called _veiling_. Otherwise, apparently, Mass-Lamite men would be compelled to rape them. At the other end of the scale were the followers of Mayzohn, the god of small businessmen. Mayzohnites were compelled to wear little aprons and only one sock, which wasn't too much of an imposition, except on every other Tuesday, when they also had to walk around blindfold too.

By even these standards Om was almost off the scale. For centuries had Omnians been smiting unbelievers with a vim and vigour that other gods could only envy. And by gods could they smite. Burnings, beheadings, flayings… they would smite anyone with anything. Including the jawbone of an ass, or the thighbone of a bullock, if nothing else was available. And that was just in their own back knacker's yard. Anyone who so much as misinterpreted or even missed out a word in reciting the Verses of the Prophet Eleidedh, would be smote, or boiled in oil, or nailed to a tree… Eventually it became clear, even to the Omnians, that they were starting to run out of Omnians to smite. So they had built a huge and terrifyingly disciplined army, and taken smiting on tour.

But all that was before the Reformation of Brutha, when all was changed, changed utterly. Now all that Omnians –or at least most of them- ever visited upon anyone was compassion, generosity and remarkably advanced medical knowledge. Oh, and sometimes some improving, enlightening and politely-worded pamphlets. And this bloody veil.

Patrick just didn't get it. He didn't get the Mass-Lamites either but at least he could see what they were trying to do. I woman swathed in so much black cloth that it was impossible to work out her shape –or even if there's anyone in there at all- is not going to be attractive to anyone, which might account for why Mass-Lamism was in such sharp decline. But this veil didn't make even that kind of sense. It was worn only by unmarried women and was intended to indicate both their modesty and their chastity. But a little piece of gauze worn across the bridge of the nose hides nothing and only draws attention to your eyes, and Omnians had beautiful eyes. It didn't make them look modest nor chaste either, though it did make them look incredibly sexy.

He was fairly sure that in church one was supposed to be concentrating on The Great Om and the words of the preacher, not thinking of the beautiful young women opposite; at least not in the way he was. And then there was the preacher himself. He'd never before been harangued with quite such vehemence to go forth and be charitable and kind. When he had to address those who hurt them, or who slighted Om his eyes bulged and his face turned purple.

"You must FORGIVE the TRANSGRESSORS!" he yelled.

Even with all of his assassin's training Patrick felt his own face beginning to purple as he fought back the laughter. Beside him the gentleman nodded, while across the hall the ladies clapped politely in their white-lace gloves. And then there was the singing.

He's never heard anything quite like it. The whole congregation, from the youngest to the oldest, seemed to have beautiful voices and be able to sing in perfect harmony. When the preacher had asked at one point for volunteers for the choir he'd assumed he was joking. Until he'd listened to the choir. They were as close to divine as anything he had ever heard, or could imagine hearing. He would happily have gone there every single day just to listen to it. If only it hadn't been for the words.

The problem with Omnian hymns, at least the ones everyone knew, was that most of them had been written before The Reformation of Brutha. This meant they were mostly about boiling people alive, hacking off their limbs or chucking them on fires. Rather than, following the new fashion: giving them your help, your love and indeed everything you owned. He'd tried it a couple of times, but beautiful people singing beautifully about mass-slaughter was more than his discordance muscle could lift. Still, that was as nothing compared to his first date with Blister.

He'd thought that a double-date, with Smite and Shame at the most expensive, Genuan restaurant in the city –La Petite Folie- would have been suitably low-key, but that had been Richard thinking, and times had changed. On the other hand, he'd thought, it would have been a good test.

The first thing he'd done once he'd escaped was to get his face done, well, the second, obviously. The first thing he'd done was make sure he was still rich. There were many things that he'd been reluctant to take from his father: beatings, advice, a name… but money had never been one of them. Of course he'd been far too clever to leave any of the money - that was supposedly his- in a bank where someone else could, for whatever reason, block his access to it. No, he'd slowly and surely removed it from all his accounts and put it in a big box in a big hole in the ground. It was all back in banks now, of course, but not under any name that could ever be traced back to him. Whoever _he_ was.

The next problem that he'd encountered with his face was the obvious one: what did he want to look like? For the right price a good Igor could make you look like anyone you wanted, but it was best to have some idea going in. However, Patrick had been in an understandable hurry and just said something like "averagely handsome" before going under the knife. It might have been an idea for him to have looked at the pictures on the wall of Igor's _satisfied customers_. When the bandages had come off and all the bruising had finally faded he looked like a matinee-star in one of those moving pictures that people still seemed to want to watch for some reason. On the other hand, there were a couple of advantages: no one could mistake him for Richard Ravenswood any longer; and now even Bliss might not think she was out of his league. But that was another thing; Bliss didn't even seem to realise she was beautiful. Of course if you're born in Omnia then you grow up surrounded by beautiful people, and when everyone is beautiful then _beauty_ loses all meaning. But Bliss had been born in Ankh-Morpork, as had Smite and Shame, yet none of them seemed to notice that they were now also surrounded by ugly people, like Gorgon the Greaser –who made the best fish and chips in the city- and Nobby Nobbs and, well, Patrick himself, a bit, before his transformation.

Then there had been the problem of trying to explain the concepts of: date, dinner-date, double-date and that he was paying for the whole thing. It had taken so long that he'd been tempted to give up on the whole idea. But Blister had indeed seared her image onto his retina, and Omnians never gave-in to temptation, so why should he?

Smite had had to ask him what they should all wear to a fancy restaurant. He'd told him they should wear their Thursday clothes, but without the veils. That had been tough, but he doubted he could cope with watching Bliss eat food under her gauze.

Of course no one would be able to recognise him now, he was sure, but he was still slightly nervous and thought the best additional disguise would be to have three other people with him who were even more attractive than he was.

At first he'd considered doing the whole carriage thing, but ended up just meeting Smite at the YMOA and then picking up the girls at the Nurses' Home. Also, his first thought of going up-market with The Splurge had been scaled back, then further scaled back and then scaled back again. Even so, his companions thought it luxurious and everyone else in Le Marché appeared to think the four of them had wandered in by mistake.

In that way that he was coming to find increasingly unsurprising, these three people, who were normally almost exclusively vegetarian, had taken to seafood soup, with all the creatures still identifiable in it, and raw beef with an egg cracked over it, as though it was just something you had to get on with. That they had then found these things utterly delicious seemed to astound them.

He'd never met people like them. They weren't like children. Sure, they all seemed to have a child's sense of wonder at each new experience. But there was none of the fussiness or fear, or petulance, or attention-seeking… There was just, genuinely, something deeply _wrong_ with them.

The conversation had been one of the most _interesting_ he'd had in his life. It began with the wine. It became clear early-on that Smite's reaction to his first mouthful of wine had indeed just been the tipping-point. Now, without the run-up of nineteen pints of ale and several large measures of assorted strong spirits, he loved the stuff, and really appreciated it too, and liked to talk about it in the most flowery language.

However, he and Smite were essentially having a conversation with each other while the girls would barely look up. Patrick was sitting beside Bliss and opposite Shame as this was, apparently, the Omnian way.

"Would you like some wine?" he asked her.

"No thank you, sir," she said, without looking up.

"It's not forbidden, you know?" he offered, helpfully.

"I know, sir," she replied and favoured him with a flash of huge, beautiful, brown eyes.

"Did not Brutha himself drink of wine?" asked Smite.

"Actually, no, he didn't," said Shame, matter-of-factly.

"But he could have if he had wanted to," said Blister, "so I shall."

Patrick poured her a large glass. From his limited study of Omnian drinking habits, he doubted that a small one would suffice. She took a deep breath and then, as they all watched, had a mouthful.

"Oh!" she said.

There was a moment's silence while they waited for further information, then Blister took another, larger drink.

"Ooooh!" she exclaimed, "Shame, you really must try this."

"Ok," said Shame.

Patrick simultaneously slapped his forehead and gestured to the sommelier with his other hand while Smite poured her a glass. She took to it like a honey-badger to fighting.

There is nothing like good food and wine to loosen tongues and enliven evenings. Soon Bliss was sitting across from Patrick and Shame across from Smite, and the girls were now prepared to actually look them in the eye. And gods, what eyes! They were enormous, of course. Bliss's eyes were particularly enormous, but Shame's eyes were enormous too, and even Smite's were pretty big, and very brown. Well he supposed that Bliss's were technically hazel; and he wondered if he might not be becoming obsessed.

Of course there had been the, almost inevitable theological discussion about the pros and cons of alcoholic drinks.

Then suddenly they'd started talking about sex. And in the most explicit terms.

"Shhhh!" he demanded.

"Why?" asked Shame, a picture of innocence.

"Because other people can hear," he hissed.

"Why would they be interested?" asked Blister. Were they, conceivably, really that innocent? Patrick wondered.

"In Genua it is considered impolite to speak of sexual matters in public."

Both girls looked absolutely stricken that they might have committed a faux pas. For his part, Patrick didn't really want to discourage them.

"It's alright, no one has noticed. Just do it quietly."

They both nodded and, in lowered voices, continued:

"Did not the prophet Ebidiah say: _It is sinful for woman to be wonton_?" whispered shame.

"No," said Blister, "he said: _It is sinful for a woman to be left wanting._ "

"Oh," said Shame as if this was news to her, "so a woman must be satisfied, according to the prophet."

"Of course," Bliss affirmed, "as must men. All things must be equal under Om. As Brutha explained…"

Patrick was completely fascinated; Smite looked as though he'd been petrified. Who'd have thought that theology could be quite so enthralling?

"In that case," suggested Shame, "would it not be sensible for a woman to test relations with more than one man before making a final decision?"

Patrick felt his eyes grow wider, as his eyebrows crept farther up his forehead.

"Or experiment with another woman," Blister suggested.

His eyebrows shot up into his hairline, tipped over his chair and landed him on his back. Where he'd called for the bill.

They'd walked the girls back to the Nurses' Home, where they both thanked Patrick for a wonderful evening, and he had asked with all his oily, Assassin's faux-gallantry, if he might kiss their hands. They each removed one lacy glove and blushed when his lips brushed their bare skin. Confusing observation number…oh, he'd lost count hours ago. Then he dropped a still-dazed Smite back at the YMOA, before heading back to The Duck.

The pub was closed but Kate was still up and he decided to join her for a nightcap. As he sat down at the bar she handed him a cognac.

"I'd have settled for a brandy," he said.

"I'm being Genuan," she replied.

"Was that a clever play on words?"

"Of course it was. So, how was your evening?"

"Kate, if I told you. You wouldn't believe me."

"The fact that you can say that with a straight face means you don't know me very well."

"Ok, I'm in love."

"I don't believe you."

"With a beautiful Omnian girl…"

"I don't believe in Om."

"…who thinks she should experiment with several men before she marries, or possibly a woman."

"I don't believe in her."

"You know, Kate, I'm not sure I do either."

Patrick had no idea of how old Kate was, and wasn't even prepared to guess. She wasn't old, as any unruly customer who had recently felt her right-hook would attest, but she was no longer in her first bloom. She'd told him once that she had in her youth been a noted singer and dancer, and had done the latter while not wearing very much.

"Were you wearing less at the end of the song than at the beginning?"

"Of course, I know how to sell a performance."

He'd seen her beat men twice her size in arm-wrestling contests, and up to three men at once in bare-fist fights. Apparently she'd also been in the army and worked down the docks –though as a docker rather than a seamstress. However, she made it very clear that she had nothing against being a seamstress as it was "a tough job in a hard world".

Of course there was a difference between a courtesan trained at the Guild of Seamstresses and a poor wretch selling herself down the docks. Materially it was the difference between a duke and a destitute drunk. Morally, as a certain Sir Samuel Vimes would confirm, it was no difference at all. And if there _was_ a difference it wasn't in the way you might think.

"You know," said Kate, "I once rescued a child from a burning building all on my own. But I slash on neck, and what name do I get?"

If Kate didn't believe something, Patrick concluded, it was literally unbelievable, and therefore not real. He went to sleep that night safe in the knowledge that Bliss had been simply a dream.

 **Chapter 8**

As the weeks went on Tiffany began to wonder more and more about the little girl she had taken under her roof. It was simply beyond her understanding why someone hadn't already adopted this child. Yes, she ate a lot; a scarcely believable amount –though that was slowing down a bit- without ever putting on any weight, but that was surely because she was never still. Actually, she was, when she knew she was supposed to be, like at the table or when they were out visiting. And she could be motionless for ages while looking at a butterfly that had landed on her arm. But Tiffany could see the effort she had to put in to sitting still. It would have exhausted a lesser person. No, the only time she was truly still was when she was asleep, and when she slept she did it so profoundly that when Tiffany had gone in to check on her one night, early on, she'd thought she was dead.

Everything she did she seemed to be able to do just more so. She didn't climb trees like a boy; she climbed them like a monkey -and there weren't many people in Lancre that even knew what a monkey was- she ran like a hare and swam like an eel. The tiny hands on the ends of her skinny arms had a grip like a vice. And she took in knowledge with even more relish that she took in bacon sandwiches. And, unlike with food, she never got full, ever.

Tiffany knew a little about a lot, and a lot about a little. Fortunately she also owned some books, as did Agnes, and Queen Magrat owned tons. And that was just as well because Moo never forgot anything. As far as she could guess, she might be able to teach Moo for another couple of years and that would be it. She'd have to start teaching her magic soon or start learning from her instead. Because she suspected that Moo might have been _borrowing._

It wasn't something that Tiffany did often, partly because of the effort required to get inside the head of another creature, but also the fear that she might never get back. Moo, however, seemed to literally be able to do it in her sleep. A lot of mornings Moo would tell Tiffany about her _dreams_ , but the vividness with which she described: being in the forest at night, swimming under the water in the river or flying over the Ramtops made Tiffany fairly sure she's actually been there.

And there was another thing. It had been Agnes who had first mentioned it to her, but it was actually something she herself had noticed at their first meal together: Moo rang every last drop of pleasure out of absolutely everything she did. The girl rejoiced in running for no purpose other than doing so until her legs would no longer hold her up. And yet she could sit frozen for minutes on end just so she could examine the bugs that landed on her.

But what was most astonishing, at least for Tiffany and Agnes, was her relationship with other children. Nanny made them see it by getting Moo round for a birthday party. Nanny's extended-family was so huge that almost every other day was likely to be someone's birthday. The Oggs were a prolific clan, so now it wasn't just Nanny's grand-children, but also her great-grand-children who were blowing out their candles. At first Moo had just stood at the side of the room, in her bunches and her party-frock, looking awkward. Then one of Nanny's great-granddaughters, Esme, had come up to her, asked her name and then taken her hand and said they should get some cake. For the next three hours they'd watched her dance and play and eat sweetmeats with the other children; for all the Disc as though she was just a little, nine-year-old girl.

"She's an odd one, isn't she?" observed Agnes.

"You have no idea."

When they got home Tiffany had asked if she'd enjoy herself:

"It was the best time ever, miss."

Once again Tiffany didn't doubt her, because Moo never told a lie. In fact Moo never did anything wrong. At first Tiffany had wondered if it was because she was terrified she'd be thrown out if she did. So she'd asked her.

"Yes, miss," said Moo, ever honest.

"You think I might throw you out of the house if you're naughty!?" cried Tiffany, appalled.

"No, miss. But I think I should be a good girl, just in case."

That was Moo for you; she couldn't even lie about being devious. And then she made a friend.

Tiffany wasn't sure, but she thought that perhaps the last time Moo had had a friend she hadn't been walking and talking all that long. So, if she was going to have a new friend then the absolute worstest would be Margs.

Margs was another of Nanny's great-granddaughters and a trial to everyone who knew her. Apart from Nanny, of course, for whom no relation, younger than one of her own children, could possibly do any wrong. Not even Margs.

Margs and Moo were about the same age and about the same frame, for about the same reason, that's where the similarity ended. Whereas Moo could make herself sit still if she really had to, Margs would have to be tied down, or nailed.

All the bad-girl things Moo had spent her whole life being falsely accused of, and unjustly beaten for, Margs actually did. Agnes had once told Tiffany, though she wasn't sure how seriously, that she'd seen Margs standing at a wedding while her stockings spontaneously laddered and her plaits un-braided themselves before her eyes. She wasn't a boy in girls' clothing; she was a wild-animal in a torn dress.

And yet she got away with it, more often than not, because of her face. No one was prepared to believe that that face of perfect and beautiful innocence, sparkling with that utterly guileless smile, could possibly be responsible for: the broken vase; the little boy with the black-eye; the dead fish in the fire… Margs could look guiltless standing over a decapitated corpse with a hatchet in her hand.

They'd first met at one of the innumerable Ogg birthday parties and become friends at once. No one could have planned it better, though both Tiffany and Agnes suspected that Nanny had done precisely that.

Tiffany was more than happy. Of course she was worried, more or less all the time, as any parent –or anyone in a parent's place- would be, because Moo would go off for whole days with Margs and come back in scratches and bruises and sometimes cuts that were actually bleeding. But she'd clean the wounds on both of them; heal a bit, if necessary; feed them –Margs had a huge appetite, though not to be compared with Moo's- and send them on their way.

She did wonder what they got up to, sometimes, but she never asked Moo. Moo would simply have told her. On the other hand, she did once think of asking Margs, because she liked a good fantastical story now and then.

Once again it had been Nanny who had urged them on with the age thing. Moo wasn't sure how old she was and didn't know when her birthday was, so Nanny had decided that they should choose a birthday for her. They'd started to think about it.

"Twenty-second of Doon," Nanny announced.

"Mid-Year's Day," Agnes wondered.

"And why not?"

"It's a very important date, though," said Tiffany.

"So it is, my lovelies, so it is," agreed Nanny.

And so the Lovely Day was agreed between all three of them. And it was further agreed that her birthday party should be held at Nanny's cottage.

"Do you ever wonder," asked Agnes, as they went to fetch their brooms, "if we'll ever be consulted on these _unanimous_ decisions?"

"Oh, I'm sure she'll tell us if we will," said Tiffany.

When Agnes came into sight of the cottage she was appalled at the sight of her friend sitting on the grass, in the sunshine, wearing nothing but her nightdress. She was plaiting flowers.

"Tiffany Aching!" barked Agnes, in her best scolding voice.

"Oh, morning, Aggie," said Tiffany, throwing her a huge, beaming smile. Agnes felt a little lift in her stomach and had to fight back a smile of her own.

"What if it had been someone else and they'd seen you like this?" she demanded, not giving up so easily.

"Oh, I'd have heard them," laughed Tiffany, "just as I heard you when you turned into the lane and climbed over the stile."

"You did NOT know it was me."

"Well, it's true," Tiffany conceded, "that there may be more than one person who wears _Midnight Musk_ , has a pebble in the heel of one of her shoes and says _botheration_ when she bangs her knee on the post, but the odds were definitely in my favour."

"Which heel?" demanded Agnes.

"The left," said Tiffany

"Ha! Wrong!"

"Well, it's a long way, and what with all these woodland sounds…"

Agnes did a quick check, as she sometimes got them mixed up, but it was definitely the right, so there!"

"Would you like a cup of tea?" asked Tiffany, getting up, "I have some chocolate biscuits, freshly made."

But of course Agnes had smelt them baking long before Tiffany had heard the pebble in her shoe.

"Well, only if you think I'm good enough," Agnes goaded.

Tiffany laughed again and it was as light and lovely as hearing leaves being rustled by a Summer breeze. It was a rare sound, but one of Agnes's favourites.

"Why don't you take your boots off?" asked Tiffany, heading indoors, "I'd forgotten how nice it was to feel the grass between my toes."

And so they sat in the sunshine and had tea and biscuits and made coronets out of flowers like the two little girls they had been not such an awfully long time before. But after a while Agnes felt she had to ask:

"Where's Moo?"

"I have no idea; off somewhere with Margs."

"Aren't you worried about her?"

"Not in the least."

"You know, you are one of the worst liars I have ever met?"

"At least I'm better than you."

This was undeniable. Agnes would blush whenever she told the tiniest of fibs. In fact, she would get so nervous about the prospect that she would sometimes fumble the words to such an extent that what came out was hardly a lie at all. At least not one that anyone would be able to recognise.

"At least I'm better than Moo."

"And bees are better at making honey than fish are," laughed Tiffany, and Agnes laughed along. For all they knew Moo might have been great at lying, it was just was just one of those things –like speaking Klatchian- that she'd simply never tried.

"How long have they been gone?"

"Since breakfast."

"What time was breakfast?"

"Dawn."

"So, they've been gone since about four o'clock this morning. What time is it now?"

"Just gone half-past ten."

"And when will they be back?"

"When they're cold, or hungry."

"And when do you think that will be?"

"Well, given all the early fruit that's around, Margs's general scavenging skills and the warmness of the nights: it could be a couple of weeks.

Agnes looked Tiffany straight in the eye, but if she was lying then she was doing it far better than she normally did.

"Are you joking!?"

"Well, maybe not weeks, but certainly days."

"Have they stayed out all night before?"

"Oh, yes, several times."

Agnes could hardly believe her ears. "And then what?"

"And then they come back with bruises and scratches and tales of wonderful adventures."

"You let Moo go and stay out all night, in the wild, having adventures!? With Margs, of all people!?"

"Margs isn't a bad girl."

"No," Agnes had to agree, "but she's a naughty girl."

"So is Moo."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!"

"No, honestly. Yes, she always does as she's told. Tell her not to do something and she won't do it. Tell her not to repeat something she's done and she won't do it ever again. But she's too clever not to have worked out that some of the things she hasn't been told not to do are very similar to things she _has_ been told not to do. She's not sly; she's not devious; she's just…naughty. How else would you want her?"

"But Tiff, she's with Margs, they could be anywhere; it could be dangerous!"

"I'm sure it is. Often I don't ask."

"You can't be serious! You mean you're not interested?"

"Oh, I'm always interested; I'm always brimming over with curiosity, but sometimes I think it's just better that I don't know."

"I can't understand what you're saying!"

"Look," said Tiffany "two weeks ago they came back from wherever they'd been with Margs having to hold Moo up, as her legs were like jelly, she couldn't talk a word of sense, her eyes were all over the place and she had a lump the size of a duck's egg on her forehead.

"We bathed her together and put her to bed. Then we both stayed up all that night. Margs wouldn't leave her bedside, even when she was fast asleep on her stool. The next day Moo was a bit better and Margs kept trying to tell me what had happened, but I wouldn't let her. You know Margs, it would just have been a pack of lies anyway. I only let her tell stories when Moo's with her, because as soon as she starts inventing, Moo starts frowning and she stops.

"Anyway, by the second day Moo had recovered and they both wanted to tell me what had happened; and I forbade it. I told them it must be their secret and that they should tell no one else."

"What!?" said Agnes, incredulously, "why in the name of all the gods would you do that?"

"Because it was probably something stupidly dangerous, and I would have forbidden them to do it, or anything like it ever again. And Moo would have obeyed me, and thereby probably ruined the rest of her childhood. Margs of course would have completely ignored me and, no doubt, done the self-same thing again, but on her own. And because then there would have been no friend around to help her and take care of her, she'd probably have died."

"Well, it's a case," admitted Agnes, "though not a very convincing one. Has anyone ever told you that you think too much?"

"Everyone I've ever met, apart from you."

"Well, you can include me too now," Agnes said.

Tiffany laughed again, but this time it wasn't quite the little-girl laugh anymore.

"Right," she said, getting up, "they're on their way, so I'd better change while you finish of the coronets."

"Can you really hear them?" asked Agnes, straining her ears and pulling her shoes and stockings towards her.

"Oh, yes," said Tiffany, "but they're a good fifteen minutes away. And I wouldn't bother with the shoes; a witch should be able to feel the earth beneath her feet."

"Well, as long as I've got my pointy-hat on."

"Oh, don't be silly. Didn't Granny ever tell you? That's just for in front of men."

The girls duly turned up about a quarter of an hour later. Their faces, legs and arms were tanned, bruised and scratched. Their feet were filthy and the only semblance of order about the appearance of either of them was the fiercely tight braid hanging down each of their backs. However, in the laps of each of their torn dresses they carried a good collection of what the people of Lancre called _greeners_ , the small, sweet delicious plum that grew wild for a month every Summer. Agnes clapped in delight at the sight of them. The girls, of course. Of course, the girls. But those plums really were sweet.

Tiffany appeared at the door, all in black and with her previously flowing hair looking as if it had been nailed to her head; but no hat and still nothing on her feet. She was carrying a plate for cold meats and another of cheeses. These farmers could be so generous sometimes.

"Agnes, would you get the bread, and girls, wash your hands before we have lunch.

And so they passed a pleasant hour or so, eating and drinking things made or picked within an hour's walk of where they sat, and talked of all the things that that happened within an hour's walk of where they sat. The story of the girls' day was told, mostly by Margs, and mostly accurately, thanks to Moo. The girls drank water with a little elderflower cordial in it, while the witches drank something that that nice young farmer Giles made from elderberries.

At the end of lunch there really wasn't much to clear up so Tiffany suggested that they girls go for a nap as they both looked totally exhausted, and off they trooped.

"Are you drunks?" she asked Agnes.

"Oooh, yesss. Do you think an'body noticed?"

"Well, I didn't," Tiffany assured her, "but I can't feel my toes. Can you feel my toes?"

"I don't know, where are they? What did you give me to drink, you wicked witch?"

"Oh, there are my toes; they're on ends of my feets."

"Tiff, what did we drink?!" laughed Agnes.

"Dunno, thought was eld'berry wine; bit of water, where's the harm?"

"Can you see stars?"

"S'noon-ish, can see stars for the Sun."

"I can see stars, and tweety-birds, and…dwarfs!"

Somewhere in her addled brain Tiffany found a grip and decided to get it, so she gripped Agnes:

"Aggies, magick!"

Agnes nodded, they held each other's hand and pulled and whatever it was that had been messing with their minds was yanked out, almost painfully.

"Wow," said Agnes, "pretty good stuff."

"Indeed," agreed Tiffany, "I think I may have to have a word with farmer Giles of Ham.

 **Chapter 9**

Harry's day had gone from baddest, to worser to toilets in a very short time, even before he met Mr. Trilby. It was bad that Commander Carrot thought he was crap at his job, it was worse that The Patrician thought he was crap at his job too. But it was really shit that he thought he was crap at his job as well.

Of course he had to rely on his sergeants and constables for a lot of information, but he still pounded his beat each night. Just like he'd done every night since he'd arrived in the city; because he didn't need much sleep. As it turned out he'd just been in the wrong places.

His beat had always been The Shades, right from the start, mostly because nobody else wanted it. He knew what was going on, he knew the players –such as they were- and he knew the victims; because that was almost everyone. But that was why he didn't know this. People in The Shades were so busy just trying to survive that they didn't pay much attention to how other people were striving to do the same. But as soon as he stepped outside that all changed. It was as though everyone knew what was going on, except him.

Though he knew most of these people, he didn't know what they were telling him, because what they were telling him didn't make any sense. No one denied that Omnians were generally despised, or that their houses and shops were being vandalised, or even that they were often being attacked in the streets. But apparently this was "all their own fault". It seemed that they would work far more hours than normal people; even though they were incredibly lazy. And they pushed out proper shops because they undercut them; by overcharging everyone…and on and on.

Even Bert, for gods' sakes, the ground's own pepper:

"I keep myself to myself, Mr. Mudd, as you know, but that's what I hears."

Bert was working the small piece of garden behind his small house, where he grew a small amount to supplement his small income.

"Bert, would you just listen to what you've said?" pleaded Harry.

"Oh, I know it sounds daft," said Bert, "but that's what I hears."

"And what if you heard that someone could grow vegetables by not planting them and pouring bleach into his soil."

"I'd say he was an Omnian," said Bert, with an arched eyebrow and a wry smile.

"Oh, Bert," sighed Harry, "even you?"

"All I wants is a quiet life, Mr. Mudd, I don't bother nobody."

"Actually, Bert, you're really starting to bother me."

And then he had had a meeting with Nigel Trilby.

Mr. Trilby was the leader of the Small-businessmen's Association. He was a neat, little man with a toothbrush moustache and thinning hair that he was trying to disguise with a comb-over. Harry wasn't sure but he suspected was quite a bit younger than he appeared.

"Ah, Captain Mudd, "he said, getting up from behind his desk and offering his hand, "so good of you to come."

Harry shook his hand, which was slightly damp.

"Do have a chair," Nigel went on, "would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you, sir," said Harry, "I'd prefer to get down to business."

"Quite so, quite so," said Trilby, "well I'm gratified that Lord Vetinari appears to be taking our concerns seriously."

"So it would appear," agreed Harry, "what precisely are your concerns?"

"Well, all that we in the SA are looking for is a level-playing field…"

"And you feel that the playing-field is not level, I take it."

"Indeed," said Mr. Trilby, "and, to be frank, it's all down to Omnian immigrants."

"Is it? And how exactly do they make the playing-field uneven?"

"Well, frankly, by undercutting."

"So, they charge less than your members?"

"No, not as such."  
"Then in what way are they undercutting you?"

"Well, now I'm not saying they're dishonest, but it's not really the same product they're selling."

Harry seemed to remember that this was called _apophasis_ in Ephebe: saying that you're not going to say something, and then saying it.

"Let me see if I understand you," said Harry "are saying that Omnians charge the same for a particular product as your members, but that their product is just better?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it like that, quite frankly."

No, Harry thought, because you're probably one of the least frank people I've ever met.

"May I ask what your business is, ?"

"I hardly see how that's relevant."

"Indulge me."

"I'm a meat importer."

"Hmm. Omnians don't really eat meat, so I'm fairly sure they don't import much of it."

"Oh, naturally I'm not concerned for myself."

"Naturally."

"But the SA has many members…"

"Such as?"

"My friend Mr. Seemly."

"Who's a wine-seller, and Omnians don't drink."

"Or Mr. Carpenter…"

"What! The world's worst joiner?"

"I sorry, Captain, but I don't really think I like your tone. It is the duty of The Watch to stand-up for the rights of the decent, hard-working people who were born here."

"Is it now?"

"Yes, it is!"

"Well, a great many of these so-called Omnians were actually born here."

"That has nothing to do with it, as well you know."

"Actually, I don't think it does either, but I really don't like _your_ tone, Mr. Trilby, and I now have an overpowering urge to wash my hand. Good day" 

So here he was now, sitting in The Duck drinking whisky in the day to try to get the taste out of his mouth. If there was anyone he was angrier with than himself it was Sergeant Visit. Deepdelver and Detritus barely noticed what humans did, but that wasn't their job. Sergeant Cuttler was human but, for various reasons, wasn't competent by virtue of being on the edge of insanity. Visit was Omnian and was obviously aware of what was happening, so why hadn't he told Harry. Mind you, now that he thought about it, he remembered a report Vlad had made to him that he hadn't really paid much attention to. Perhaps Visit had just assumed he'd be ignored. He was probably right.

The Day Watch wasn't the ideal place for a vampire but Prince Vladimir Nicolas Josef Illyich Vossarianovich Romanoff-Ulyanov liked a challenge, and was good at keeping to the shadows. Also, he didn't really sleep, so he often did the nightshift as well. Like all the other vampires who were off _the red stuff_ when he did try to sleep, it was troubled. Young women, especially in Überwald, often had nightmares of a dark, demonic presence invading their bedrooms to ravish them and bite them and drain them of their blood. In his bad dreams he was that presence.

Still, it could be worse; at least he wasn't Lucy. He'd first met her in Schwarzbergstadt about a hundred years before and had been utterly captivated. The contrast between her tiny, almost childlike, body, her sweet, beautiful, innocent face; and those wild fiery eyes and cruel smile had quite taken his breath away. Or it would have done, if he'd breathed.

It was difficult to see any part of La Donna Lucrezia di Magenta i Solferino in the pathetic wretch that he saw now, and he did see her quite a bit. Of course they were bound to bump into each other at the butcher's shop and at the hospital, but he'd also sometimes walk her _home_ from The Sisters of Kindness when things were slow.

Lucy didn't actually have a home. She worked at the shop, then the hospital, then at the Omnian home for the destitute and then went back to the shop. Bernie paid her well and fed her for free and the hospital paid her too, but she was totally penniless. She either gave all her money to The Sisters of Kindness or had it stolen. She was constantly being robbed. Various muggers had discovered that she always carried all her money with her and, that when they attacked her, she never fought back. At first Vlad had thought of reporting it to the Thieves Guild, but then he'd joined The Watch instead.

It was remarkable how easily people could be dissuaded from attacking a frail, helpless girl just by a huge, terrifying, dark shape descending on them and breaking some of their bones. No one seemed prepared to stick in at their jobs these days, he thought, young people just lacked a proper work-ethic.

Eventually Lucy had consented to use his room to at least change her clothes –vampires never needed to wash- and keep some money in a jar there. Though gods' knew what she might ever spend it on. The hospital provided her with a nurse's uniform; Bernie supplied a smock and an apron for work. Other than that she seemed to own one small, white dress that she wore to the hostel and –as far as he could see- nothing else, not even shoes.

Whenever Vlad walked with her she always looked as if she'd just been crying, or was on the verge of tears; that's when she wasn't actually weeping. Yet at the butcher's she was always laughing with the customers. At the hospital she was always cheery, though concerned, and at the hostel, always smiling and sympathetic. He'd actually tried to broach the subject with her once:

"Luzy, you cannot keep punizhing yourzelf forever, you know?"

"Yes, I can!"

It had been said with such total finality that he saw no point in arguing about it, though that's when he'd decided to talk to Sally about her.

Of course the main reason for his wanting to talk to Sally about Lucy was that he wanted Sally. One of the benefits of being a vampire was that –though you might lie about everything to everyone else in the world- you never lied to yourself.

He remembered very clearly the first time he had seen Sally. It had been at a Grande Balle at the Autumn Palace in Üpyrgrad. In the Great Hall, amid a swirling sea of beauties she had managed to stand out as a crest among the waves. He had a feeling that Lucy had been there too. And he remembered his father's hand upon his shoulder.

"Zhe iz not for you, my zon."

"Why not? Zhe iz the ze mozt beautiful girl I have ever zeen."

"Her family iz of inverior ztock, and wampirez never marry for loff."

At the time it hadn't seem to matter as Sally only had eyes for Harry. To the obvious disapproval of both sets of parents, and against not only all precedent but any semblance of uncommon decency, they appeared to be totally, and hopelessly, in _loff_.

And now they weren't. He had no idea what might have happened between them down the decades, but now they barely spoke to each other. And that was why he was on the temple roof with her now. He'd flown most of the way and then misted down on to the parapet to walk the last few yards towards her totally silently.

"Well done, Vlad," said Sally, "no one else can ever get that close."

"I vaz not trying to creep up you."

"Of course not; I prefer a vegetarian diet myself."

"Ah, it iz zo refrezhing to commune viz zee dark zpiritz. Vat are vee doink up here?"

"That!" said Sally, pointing down into the street.

A large ugly crowd carrying flames was mustering on the edge of Egitto, the largely Omnian enclave shouting very ugly things. And they were clearly in a very ugly mood.

"Vlad, I'm on duty and in uniform, would you do me a huge favour and…"

"Oh, you vill not owe me one for zis. I cannot remember ze lazt time I had an angry mob vit torches to play vis."

He leapt off the tower and Sally watched him land gently a few yards in front of the mob. She had a lot of other things to do but decided to hang around for a bit a watch Vlad work the crowd.

Any nasty bunch of bullies will always enjoy encountering a lone opponent and it started jeering at him as soon as it saw him. Though it seemed surprised that he didn't immediately run away, it just made it angrier. And then he reached out to their minds. He wasn't expecting much, but what he found surprised him.

To anyone who watching, and who wasn't part of the crowd –even to Sally- he didn't appear to be doing anything. But to his audience it was a terrifying performance. First his eyes began to glow like hot coals, then smoke started to swirl out of his body; then the smoke turned jet-black and became giant wings while Vlad himself grew fifteen feet taller as his skin began to burn with a fierce blue flame. By the time he opened his six-foot wide mouth to let them gape down his volcanic throat, they were already on the run.

"Bravo," said Sally, clapping her hands as he joined her back on the roof, "you certainly haven't lost the old magic."

Vlad, smiled and swept off a bow, but Sally could see that something was bothering him.

"Is there a problem, Sergeant Romanoff-Ulyanov?"

"Vell, Sergeant von Humpeding , zat voss not ze uzhual crowd."

"In what way?" asked Sally, becoming suddenly curious.

"No mind," said Vlad.

"Well, that's hardly unusual, all mobs are mindless, aren't they? No longer individuals but…"

"I do not mean zat," he interrupted, "zis vos not a hive-mind, it vos no mind vhotzoever; az zo zhey did not even know vot zhey ver doink."

"That's what they all say."

"No, really, it vos az zo zomzin vos controlling zhem and ven it zensed me it dizappeared."

"Maybe it just didn't like you," laughed Sally.

"And I very much did not like it eizher," he said, flatly, and watched the smile die on her face.

Harry rubbed his eyes, because he thought they must hurt from all that not looking.

"I haven't seen you here at this time before, Captain Mudd," said Kate, "are you having a bad day?"

"I couldn't begin to explain."

"Oh you'd be surprised at what you can explain to me," said Kate, leaning across the bar and wiggling her boobs. Harry had to smile.

"My wife doesn't understand me," he laughed, without humour.

"Really, is she foreign?" said Kate, pouting.

Now he really did laugh, and he didn't realise he still had that in him:

"No, just female; almost as incomprehensible."

"Sure she isn't just Omnian?"

It was as though the nine whiskies he'd just had were suddenly sucked from his body.

"You know about this!?" he asked, incredulously.

"Of course, everybody does," said Kate, with a disbelieving face.

"I didn't."

"Really, Harry, are you sure about that?" she asked, tilting her head to let him know that she already knew the answer.

"Bad cop?" he asked, plaintively.

"And then some," she affirmed. He hung his head in shame.

"And now I have to go round to Commander Carrot's house," he said morosely, "and this time what's waiting for me is even worse than the food."

"Before you do that I'd have a word with my head barman, if I were you."

"Patrick? Why?"

"Well, his girlfriend's an Omnian and so is his best mate, and his best mate's girlfriend…"

"Ok, I get the idea," said Harry, "what time does he come in?"

"Oh, he won't be long," said Kate, "why don't you have another nine whiskies while you're waiting?" Even Patrick's friend Smite couldn't compete with Captain Mudd when it came to consuming huge amounts of alcohol without ever showing signs of becoming even slightly tipsy.

"Sure where's the harm?"

 **Chapter 10**

It wasn't as if he'd never met a girl's parents before. Patrick had known a lot of young women over the years; known them really quite well. He wasn't particularly handsome –well, he was now, but he didn't used to be- yet there was something about the rakish danger of an assassin, or perhaps all that black silk and velvet, or maybe just that _je ne sais quoi_ that comes with titled wealth… Whatever it was, a great many well brought-up young ladies had wanted him to persuade them to do the sort of things that well brought-up young ladies didn't do.

Of course he had obliged; it would have been ungentlemanly not to. And as he had generally met these girls at society balls, he had often been introduced to the mother and father of one of his persuadees; who never seemed to object to what he was obviously up to.

But that had been all about social position and being _polite_ in _Polite Society_. This was the first time he had ever been invited back to _meet_ someone's parents. And this time he was going to have to actually be polite.

He's asked Bliss what he should bring.

"Oh, bring wine," she'd said.

"Your parents drink wine!?" he'd asked, incredulously.

"Well, not yet."

"What about flowers for your mum?"

"For Om's sake, no! Unless you want to be thrown out of the house."

It turned out that Omnians loved flowers: planting them, growing them, tending them, pruning them…the idea of cutting them down in their prime to give to a woman so that she might watch their corpses rot for a few days struck them as bonkers; and they knew a lot about bonkers. He decided not to commit the atrocity of the blooms but instead to buy a couple of good bottles from Seemly's.

The Shivarananoms lived in the Egitto, or Omnian quarter, just the other side of Sticken Place from The Shades, as most Omnians did. As he walked down its streets he thought they were the neatest and cleanest he'd ever seen, admittedly he'd just come from The Shades, which can bias a man, but these streets stood up well against any of the posh ones around Hide Park. And they scored over those upmarket streets in two ways: they were overflowing with flower-pots and flower-baskets, but also children were playing in them.

Bliss's parents, and her younger sisters and brother, lived above their tailor's shop. When he rang the bell the door was opened almost immediately by Bliss herself, as though she'd been waiting behind it. She was wearing a pretty little dress and a little gauze veil, just to make an awkward evening even more difficult.

"Good afternoon, sir," she said, curtseying, "it is lovely to see you. Would you like to come up to the parlour?"

Patrick thought it was more than just lovely to see Bliss again as he followed her up the stairs. In the parlour stood two beautiful young people, presumably Bliss's brother and sister, and he wondered where her parents were.

"This is my father," Bliss began, "Destroy the Infidel's Arguments with Superior Logic."

"Good evening, sir," said Patrick –who didn't miss a beat- shaking his hand with a firm grip, that was reciprocated.

"And my mother, Confound the Heathen with Random Acts of Kindness."

"Enchanted to meet you, ma'am" he said, kissing her hand. Bliss's mum giggled.

Was this a setup? Was this some elaborate joke intended to either test him or just make him look foolish? There was no way these people could be old enough to have a child of Bliss's age –though now that he looked again, she seemed a lot younger than before- they barely looked old enough to have children at all. And then he looked again.

His assassin's training was useful in so many ways and one of the lessons was: observation may be the difference between life and death; look carefully. He could now see the tiny lines around their eyes and the edges of their mouths, but it was in the depths of the eyes that the tale was really told. These were people who'd had it hard, but were damned if they were going to admit it.

"I have brought a small gift," Patrick continued, holding out the bottles, "I trust that that's in order." He was almost embarrassed by his own formality, but this was a new experience for him.

"Ah, wine!" said Mr. Shivaranaom, "Blister has told us much about it, thank you." He moved his eyes in the direction of his wife and Patrick understood that he should offer them to her.

"Thank you, young man," she said, taking the bottles and flashing him a smile that made him see where Bliss got her looks, and her eyes.

"Now," said Bliss's dad, "while the women prepare the table, you and I shall get better acquainted."

Bliss and her mum duly departed with the wine to prepare the vegetarian meal, yeeeuch! Mr. Shivarananom laid a strong hand on his shoulder and guided him towards the window.

"I wondered if we might have a quiet word before dinner, ."

"Of course, sir."

"Oh, you may call me Destroy."

"And I am Patrick sir."

"Well, Patrick, it seems you want to have sex with my daughter."

This place, this small few inches of floor, this was where dumb was originally founded.

" ," was all that Patrick could manage.

"Well, you do, don't you?"

Another important lesson he'd learned at The Guild was: never give a straight answer to a straight question. On this occasion he decided: what the hells?

"Yes, sir."

"Good, can't have children without having sex."

"So I understand."

"You'll have to be married , of course."

"Of course," Patrick agreed, "would I have to convert to Omism?"

"I don't know. What are you now?"

"Eh, nothing."

"In that case I don't think so."

"Oh, good."

Now his prospective father-in-law became more serious and looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"A word of warning, Patrick," he said, gripping Patrick's arm hard, "if you should in any way mistreat Blister, Om will be avenged upon you."

"Destroy, trust me, if anyone should ever harm your daughter, Om will be the least of their problems."

"Excellent," he said, "let's have dinner."

For dinner they were joined by Bliss's younger brother Harangue and her two little sisters: Mortify and Disgrace. He was sort of getting used to Omnian names, but that didn't make them any less mad. All three of them looked very young which made him start to worry about just how old Bliss was. He'd assumed she was a bit younger than him, maybe twenty, but Harangue looked about ten and the girls were younger still. It would be a big gap and something he was going to have to ask Bliss about, and soon. Right after dinner in fact.

It was a dinner he wasn't looking forward to, but not because of the company. Patrick had eaten vegetables before, of course, and was actually partial to potatoes, peas and even carrots in the right place. And the right place was is a rich lamb stew, or sitting beside bacon and sausage or a thick juicy steak. Mostly, though, vegetables brought back memories of the amorphous, boiled slurry that he used to get slopped on to his plate at boarding school, to go with the boiled meat. A meal consisting solely of vegetables hardly bore thinking about, so what he got confused the hells out of him.

Firstly, he couldn't identify most of it: aubergine, okra, artichoke…it was all new to him, but the tastes were astonishing and there were crunchy bits and spicy bits and creamy bits and… It was, quite simply, the most delicious meal he'd ever eaten, and he said so. It made Mrs Shivarananom laugh, that same lovely, light thing that Bliss had.

"Oh, Blister said you would flatter me."

"Honestly, Confound, I have never tasted anything better and I've eaten a lot of great meals."

"Why, thank you, young man," she said, laughing again.

And that was another incongruous thing: Patrick was twenty-three and he didn't think Mrs. Shivarananom looked that much older. Even Destroy only looked to be in his early thirties; certainly not old enough to have a daughter of Bliss's age, whatever that was. It was all terribly confusing and needed sorting out, right quick.

The wine had been a great success too; even the children had liked it. Patrick knew he should no longer be surprised that teetotallers thought nothing of giving alcohol to preteens. The Great Om certainly knew how to mess with people's heads. And then after dinner there had been coffee and a delightful little Omnian herbal drink called _chernobil_. Though it turned out actually to be made from a root.

The coffee was superb: so thick he could have chewed it and served in the traditional Omnian fashion: black as night, sweet as honey and hot as hell. But that was as nothing beside the _digestif_. Destroy brought out two glasses only -clearly this was man's stuff- and began the ritual. First he poured a generous measure of _chernobil_ into each glass. Patrick smelt it immediately, and if there was no alcohol in that then he was a cave-painting. Next he took a spoonful of sugar, immersed it in the liquid and balanced it on the glass. When both glasses were ready, and while a kettle was boiling, he set fire to the sugar. After letting it burn for a few seconds he put out the flames by pouring a little boiling water over them; he then stirred the sugar into the mixture and handed one to Patrick. Patrick almost felt drunk on the ritual alone, but not as drunk as on the fumes. It didn't even smell like booze; it smelt like narcotic and it tasted that way too: sweet and bitter and intoxicating. It was little wonder it was hard to get Smite drunk if he was used to drinking this stuff.

"It is made from the roots in the Worm Wood," Destroy explained.

"Is it indeed?" said Patrick, making a mental note never to go there. He took a sip, and then soon discovered that his glass was empty. Destroy made to prepare another, but he politely refused.

"Actually, people seldom have a second," said Destroy.

" _Pas de merde!"_ thought Patrick. He could see immediately that there was no such thing as two glasses of _chernobil_ ; there was one, and then there was dead in a ditch.

The conversation had been wonderful all evening. Everyone had been animated and witty, even the children had been delightful company so perhaps that, combined with the _chernobil_ was what caused him to commit his _faux pas_.

"Have, you had any trouble around here, Mr. Shivarananom?"

"Trouble?" asked Destroy.

"You know, with Omniphobia."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," said Destroy, suddenly stiff.

"You, know, like what happened to our friend Smite…" Patrick glanced around the table; everyone looked stricken. He didn't know what he'd said but he knew he shouldn't have said it. His training kicked-in immediately.

"Oh, nothing," he said, dismissively, "I've having so much fun, but I fear it's getting late; perhaps I should walk your daughter home."

Everyone seemed to relax; there were even some nervous giggles.

"A fine idea," laughed Destroy, convivially, slapping him on the arm.

Everyone laughed along and began hurriedly clearing the table.

"Now, remember, ," Destroy went on, "Blister is under your protection, and you have my trust."

A lot of people had trusted Patrick in the past; Mr. Shivarananom was the first one who wasn't wrong to do so.

He had two questions, and he didn't know which he wanted answered more, but he knew which he wanted answered more urgently. They had only been walking for two or three minutes when he turned to her and asked:

"Bliss, how old are you?"

"Ha ha, is that what you call me?"

"Well, it's nicer than Blister."

"Oh, I don't know, it seems a bit _girly_ to me."

"Bliss, you are the girliest girl I have ever met, and also the prettiest, I refuse to call you after a skin irritation."

"Why, thank you, kind sir," she said, combining a smile and a blush to great effect.

"So, how old _are_ you?"

"I'm eighteen." Phew! "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, it's just that Confound seems a bit young to be your mother and…"

"Oh, Confound is my second mum; my birth-mum died when I was little."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't worry, I hardly remember her and Confound has been very kind to me."

"So the children are…?"

"My half-siblings."

Well, thankfully things were becoming much clearer.

"Just out of curiosity, how old _is_ Confound?"

"She's twenty-eight; Harangue is ten, Mortify is eight and Disgrace is six. And father is thirty-six."

"I think I see a pattern emerging."

"We believe that people should start to have children as soon as they're old enough: while they're still young, healthy and fertile."

The last part was clearly the nurse in her coming out, he thought.

"I just have one more question."

"I shall answer truthfully, as always."

"Why did everyone get upset when I talked about Smite?"

The smile of Bliss's face disappeared and her shoulders slumped.

"We don't like to talk about such things."

"Why not?"

"Please don't ask me that, Patrick, please," she pleaded, taking his hand. Her hand was small and soft and warm –his own was large and calloused; much coarsened from working in The Duck- he squeezed it gently.

"Ok, I won't ask again," he said, and was rewarded with a smile.

They walked the rest of the way holding hands and talking about inconsequential things. When they reached the entrance to the Nurses' Home Patrick made to kiss her hand, but instead Bliss lifted her veil raised her face and pouted. He kissed her gently on the lips and then suddenly she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back, with more passion than he'd ever been kissed before. When their mouths came apart he was amazed at how fast his heart was beating. Bliss looked at him with her big, beautiful, brown eyes; then she laughed, turned round and skipped away. Women! He thought. Can't imagine a world without them; can't understand a thing that's going on inside their heads. Especially an Omnian woman's head.

For Patrick, what Omnians thought about everything was pretty weird, but what they thought about sex was weird even for a religion. As with virtually all cultures on The Disc, and indeed all animal species, the guarantee of paternity was hugely important. And so the Book of Om insisted "that certain acts are purely unto thy spouse, on to the begetting of children and not before thy wedding night". As far as he could remember that was pretty much what they all said. The difference with the Omnians though, since the Reformation of Brutha, was that everything else was pretty much alright, with anyone, anytime. But that was a game he wasn't intending to play. Not this time.

It had been a very pleasant evening in so many ways, he thought, as he made his way back to The Duck, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to find out what secret these Omnians were keeping from him. He would keep his word and not ask Bliss about it again, or her family. But he hadn't said anything about not asking Smite.

 **Chapter 11**

Tiffany wanted Moo's party to be special, and that meant the best elderberry wine and elderflower cordial in the whole of the Ramtops. But before that, given Agnes and hers recent experience, she needed to have strong words with farmer Giles.

"I'm very sorry, miss," said Young Giles, "there must have been a bit of a muddle."

"I'm not sure what you mean by _muddle_ ," said Tiffany, wearing Frown #2. Frown Number One was reserved solely for badly behaved children, while the frown-level went all the way up to ten. The most anyone around these parts had ever seen was a six, and he would "really rather not talk about it."

"Well, miss, you see, well, it's like well…"

Tiffany just stayed still. It was another one of her tricks. She could not move in any way in a way that made statues look twitchy.

"…what I means is, it must have been berries from the top of the North Field," Giles spluttered.

"And how would this make a difference?" she asked. She had also been working on her voices. This was barely a four, and they went all the way up to a hundred.

"Well, well, now well…" blabbered Giles.

"Stop blabbering," commanded Tiffany, dropping to a three, to give the poor man a chance.

"Well, you see, miss, that's where Granny and Nanny and Her Majesty used to go a-covening of a dark and stormy night and ever since, well, them berries has been a bit _peculiar_ , if you knows what I mean."

"But you still make wine out of them," she said, sternly.

"Only for export, miss, only for export," Giles frantically tried to defend himself, " _North Field_ is very popular in Ankh-Morpork. And even farther afield, if you can believe such a thing."

After her one experience of even watered-down _North Field_ Tiffany could certainly believe it might be popular with the young and foolish in Forn Parts.

"Then why did I get a bottle of it?" she wanted to know.

"Well, you see, well, it's my old dad, you see? He gets a bit muddled sometimes, what with one thing and another…"

Young Giles himself was over seventy, so she could see how his _old dad_ could easily have wandered off into the land of confusion.

"Never mind," said Tiffany, "no harm done." Well, -ish, she thought. "Can I count on there being no _muddle_ for the party at Nanny's?"

"Absolutely," said Giles, eyes wild.

She supposed that Old Giles might dismiss even her as being no more than chit of a girl but, however muddled his mind might have become, there was no way it wanted to be on the wrong side of Nanny Ogg.

She'd been thinking more and more about Moo, for a couple of reasons. First off, she was everything that parents always said they wanted in a child. She was polite and obedient at all times. She did her chores diligently; so diligently in fact that Tiffany had had to rein her in and explain that the chores were supposed to be shared. Moo had seemed a trifle surprised by this and when she'd thought about it she'd realised she'd been being a bit lazy of late.

And therein lay a slight problem: Moo was so transparently honest all the time that there was a danger she could find out things about herself that she'd really rather not have known. Like how she was very careful of how much she ate and critical of others who weren't.

"You always smile when you're watching me eating, miss," Moo had said one evening over dinner.

"That's because I love the way you enjoy your food, darling," she'd replied.

"But Miss Agnes enjoys her food, and you don't smile when you watch her."

Was this really why it had taken so long for anyone to take Moo in: that she couldn't help herself saying what was in her head and always told the truth? Tiffany suspected it might be and sent a note to herself from her inner teacher: must do better. The second reason was down to an incident that had occurred a few weeks before.

She'd been asked by Mrs. Hedge to attend the lying-in of her eldest daughter as she herself had been forbidden to by her daughter's husband. She'd seen right away that mother and baby weren't both going to survive. In fact she'd come out of the bedroom almost immediately and explained to the husband that the baby was probably already dead and that all it was doing was killing his wife. It wasn't Tiffany's decision to make, but neither he, nor his wife, were prepared to make it, until the time for doing things was long past. So, she'd been sitting there by the bed alone –the husband having fled into the night, she knew not where- feeling utterly exhausted, while she waited for the undertaker.

"Good morning, my lord," she'd said to the cold wind she suddenly felt.

GOOD MORNING, MISS ACHING.

All witches eventually became well acquainted with this tall, dark opposite-of-a-stranger, so she thought she'd take advantage of their familiarity.

"May I ask you a question, sir?"

YOU MAY, THOUGH I DO NOT GUARANTEE YOU AN ANSWER.

"You spoke recently to Nanny Ogg of a Great Evil that was abroad; is Moonlight here to fight that evil?"

YES, SHE IS.

"And can she defeat that evil?"

THAT, ALAS, I CANNOT SAY.

This then was the conflict she now felt: on the one hand she was afraid for the little girl she was beginning to love like a daughter, but on the other; if something needed doing then, apart from the Hooded Gentleman himself, there was no one on the Disc more reliable than Moo.

When the day came Agnes was round early for breakfast. There was a choice: yoghurt with seasonal fruits or porridge with honey. Agnes wasn't pleased, and she was no slouch in the frowning department either.

"You have heard of bacon, haven't you?" she asked, coldly.

"Oh, that's for Winter," Tiffany laughed.

"It's always Winter at breakfast-time," Agnes affirmed, unamused.

But Tiffany just laughed again, and this time Agnes laughed along. It wasn't that she found breakfast without bacon sarnies in the least bit funny, it was just that Tiffany had gone a long time without laughing, and now she did it all the time. Of course it was obvious why: Moo was dancing around the house singing to herself.

She'd heard it said that everyone should sing as though no one was listening. She'd once heard Tiffany sing and wished, probably along with the rest of the Disc, that she never heard anything like it again. It was one thing to sing flat, off-key and out of tune, but to really belt it out was quite another. She herself was classically trained, all be it in a rather odd way, and had sung, to great acclaim, at the Opera House in Ankh-Morpork. Perhaps that was why she always sang as though someone might be listening. Moo sang as though there might be no one else in the world. Agnes had often thought about the sound of Moo's singing. At first she's thought of songbirds or nightingales, but that was wrong as they were trying to attract other birds. She'd decided that it would be closer to say it was like a babbling brook: though it was lovely to listen to, the brook itself was making no effort, and it didn't even care. Whatever it was, it was beautiful, the more so as she seemed to make up tunes and lyrics as she went along.

"Does she know? " asked Agnes.

"Well, she knows it's a party; that why she's so happy. You know how she loves parties."

"She's always happy."

"Yes," Tiffany chuckled, "it can seem that way, but there are subtle differences if you pay close attention. Very close attention."

"So, she's happier than normal?"

"Of course, it's a party, and you know how she loves to get dressed-up. I had to spend an hour on her hair last night so that she could have ringlets today."

"And she knows it's her birthday?"

"Oh, yes."

"But we just decided it's her birthday, well Nanny did, just because everyone has to have a birthday."

"Yes, I know, I was there. But you know what she's like: tell her it's her birthday and she'll believe you; it's her birthday."

"And yet she can't connect a party on her birthday with its being her birthday party?"

"Nope."

"Is she thick?"

Tiffany laughed again and Agnes thought she would never grow tired of the sound. A bit like Moo's singing.

"I think we both know that she is farther from being _thick_ than anyone either of us has ever met. Farther than the Rim from the Hub. She's probably brighter than both of us put together. And I know that at least I'm quite clever."

"I'm cleverer."

"Shouldn't that be _more clever_?"

"No. Anyway, I take your point. So why can't she work this out?"

In the background they could hear Moo singing and laughing, and incorporating the laughter into her song.

"Because nothing like it has ever happened to her before and she can't think why it should."

"Then why haven't you told her?"

"Because then it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?"

"Do you want to see how she reacts?"

"Yes."

"So, you're experimenting on her?"

"Yes, but only because Nanny told me to."

"What!? Do you do everything Nanny tells you?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"Well, yes, but that's not the point…"

"Yes, it is. Nanny knows something about Moo, or at least she suspects it, and this is her way of testing it."

"Well, ok, but I just hope it doesn't end in tears."

"Actually, I think that might be supposed to be the point."

Sean Ogg greeted them by the door, looking even more awkward than he normally did. This affair was strictly women and children only so Sean must have done something really bad for Nanny to have made him be valet.

"May I take your broomsticks, mistresses?" he asked, bowing.

"Good morning Sean," said Agnes, handing over her broomstick, "park it carefully."

"I will, miss," he said, taking Tiffany's too and heading round the side of the house.

Inside things had already started: several of the women were playing music in one corner of the parlour while lots of little girls danced around and the few little boys skulked round the edges. In truth though the party was everywhere: in the kitchen, the upstairs bedrooms, the stairs themselves… And in the corner opposite the band sat Nanny Ogg; beaming and chuckling, as only a nanny can in a room full of her grandchildren. They waited until the dance had finished and then made their way over to her.

"Good morning, Nanny," said Moo, bobbing a curtsy.

"Well, aren't you the prettiest little thing ever," replied Nanny, "with your curly hair and your lovely frock, come and give Nanny a kiss."

Moo jumped up into Nanny's lap and kissed her. Nanny, for her part, hugged Moo as if she were one of her own.

"Now, off you and play," said Nanny and, laughing, Moo did as she was told.

"Right," Nanny said to Agnes and Tiffany, "the cake's coming out at twelve so make sure you're ready."

"Noon on Mid-Year's Day," said Agnes, "a bit dramatic, isn't it?"

"Well, you'd know, you having been on the stage and all."

"Sorry, Nanny," said Agnes, blushing.

"Never mind that," said Nanny, "you go and help with the food, and Tiffany, you go and help Doris." She pointed across the room to where Margs' mum was re-braiding her hair for the third time that morning.

She sat down, plopped Margs on her knee and took the chaos that was her hair firmly in hand

"Thank you," said Doris, understandably exasperated, "I don't know how she does it."

Tiffany didn't know either, though she had her suspicions. Margs' hair was like a force of nature, but Tiffany had sometimes been able to control the weather, so she wasn't going to be defeated by an explosion of locks that fought you like snakes. It was going to be a hard fight though.

"Sit still, girl!" said Tiffany as Margs squirmed in her lap. She realised that this was a bit like asking a gargoyle to tap-dance, but it was worth a try.

"Can I tell Moo now, can I?" begged Margs.

"No, you can't," she said, gathering her hair so tightly that had she done it to Nanny Ogg it would have smoothed out all the wrinkles in her face. And probably earned her a one-way ticket to the Dungeon Dimensions. "Just be patient," she advised, though she knew it was like asking a cow to bark. It just wasn't something Margs was capable of.

"But it's nearly twelve," she pleaded, fidgeting even more.

"Nearly, but not quite," said Tiffany, "and if you don't sit still I'll send you home."

Surprisingly, it worked. Admittedly she'd had to use voice number six, but Margs had sat still while Tiffany plaited her hair more fiercely than she ever had before. She wasn't being cruel; it was just that the hair was constantly struggling to escape, jump a fence and break for the border. And that _still_ wasn't entirely accurate either. To be fair to her she didn't jump up and down like she obviously wanted to, but her whole body thrummed with energy like an Octarine charge looking for a root to earth. When Tiffany finally let her go, with a braid that looked as though it had been fashioned from wire, it was like releasing a caged animal into the wild.

"Hard work," she said to Doris.

"A bit," Doris agreed, with a wan smile, "but Moo helps."

Tiffany watched as Margs grabbed Moo, swept her up and hugged her while Moo laughed as though she were being tickled.

"I think they just make it easy for each other." And they shared a little chuckle.

And tickling Moo was a strange thing too. She was more ticklish than anyone else that Tiffany had ever met, as she'd discovered one night when she'd tickled her ribs because she was slow getting into bed. Moo had gone down as though she's been hit by a poleaxe, in a fit of giggles. The thing was, unlike anyone else on the Disc, Moo liked being tickled. She went through all the usually contortions and guffaws like a normal person, but she never tried to get away. She would let Tiffany tickle her feet until she passed out or wet herself. For Tiffany, being tickled was like being tortured, yet Moo could get pleasure out of even that. She'd actually seen her laugh once when she'd been stung by a wasp. Bees never stung her.

And then the moment came. Agnes wheeled out the cake from the kitchen. It was huge and made of everything delicious that Agnes and Tiffany could think of. The candles around the edge looked minute because of its huge size, while in the middle Gladys had piped "Happy Birthday Moo". Moo herself took a while to register what was going on. In fact it probably wasn't until everyone started singing "Happy Birthday to Moo" that she finally twigged what was happening and then Tiffany felt what she and Agnes would come to call _The Surge._ It wasn't just that she felt happy for a little orphan having her first birthday party, though that made her feel good because she'd been partly responsible, no, this was different.

When they'd talked about it later they'd both agreed they had never felt better in their lives. It wasn't just happiness, it was pure, unadulterated joy and it filled them; not just mentally but physically: like the taste of a doughnut when you're really hungry, or the feeling of a hot bath on a cold day. But it was more even than that, it made you tingle, but it also made you feel good about yourself.

Then Moo fainted, and it was gone. Margs had caught her before she hit the ground and immediately she was surrounded by anxious people concerned for her safety. But while everyone else fussed around Moo, Tiffany looked over at Nanny. She might only have one tooth but when she mouthed the words there was no mistaking them:

I told you so.

 **Chapter 12**

Having washed and dressed Angua headed back downstairs, drawn by a smell that her nose was telling her was unmistakeable and her brain was telling her wasn't possible.

"Are you cooking with garlic!?" she asked, incredulously, as she came in to the kitchen.

"Of course I am," said Sally, "I am an artist; could you imagine a painter refusing to use blue?"

"Of course I could, painters are all mad, but not as mad a vampire chopping garlic."

"Times change, and we must all move forward. I mean, when's the last time you ripped someone's throat out?"

"Oh, not for weeks," Angua assured her, "but seriously, Sally, this sounds a bit like Lucy. Are you punishing yourself?"

"I am suffering for my art," said Sally, sweeping back her hair.

"Would you just be serious for one minute?!" Angua demanded, exasperated.

"Mind over Master."

"What? I don't understand."

"Let's just say that I'm not prepared to give in to my inner bloodsucker. I go out in the sunlight, after all."

"Well, not much, and well wrapped-up."

"Baby steps, my dear, baby steps."

"What about the other myths? I've been to your flat and it seems obsessively, almost compulsively tidy."

"Oh, I don't like mess, or untied bootlaces, but that's why I wear sandals."

"And is it true what you said about the stake through the heart not killing you?"

"I have to say that it would certainly sting a bit, but no, it wouldn't be fatal."

"What about cutting off your head?"

"Well that would kill virtually anything," laughed Sally.

"But not you?"

"No, not me."

"So, what does kill a vampire?"

"Ah, that would be telling."

"Do you think I can't be trusted with the knowledge?"

"I'd trust you with my life, my pretty one."

"But not with the means to take it away."

"Well, I know how you feel about vampires."

"Not you! Or your mum, or Lucy, or Vlad, or Otto or…"

"You know, some of my best friends are wolves but… Oh, and it is dessert without cream or chocolate, if you must know."

"I know, I know; I can almost hear myself. It's like this Omnian thing, isn't it?"

"You know about that?"

"Of course I do, I'm not blind."

"Does Carrot know?"

"He does now. And what's The Watch doing about it? And you do mean Commander Carrot, don't you, sergeant?"

"Yes, former-sergeant, I do mean Commander Carrot. And what are we supposed to do about it? No one ever makes a complaint and the perpetrators slyly don't perpetrate when we're around to nick them."

"So what? Why didn't you tell Carrot?"

"You mean Commander…"

"Sally, don't!"

"Look, I report to Stronginthearm. I told him and it's his job to pass it up the chain of command."

Angua couldn't really argue, because that was the way things were supposed to be done.

"You could have spoken to me if you thought things weren't being done."

"I don't tell tales out of school," said Sally, affronted.

"As if you ever went to school," Angua snorted.

"I did, actually," sniffed Sally, "in fact I went to school with your great-great great-great-great grandmother."

"Fine, let's change the subject. Who were you in love with?"

"Now there's a tangent."

"What's a tangent?"

"Trigonometry, something your great-great great-great-great grandmother and I studied at school."

"Never you mind jommetry," Angua persisted, "who were you in love with?"

Sally looked at her blankly for a moment and the frowned:

"I don't know," she had to admit.

"What?!" yelled Angua, "that's insane! How can you not know who you were in love with?"

Sally's face was almost a parody of misery:

"I just can't remember. My parents did something to my memory, or his did, or hers…I just don't know."

"You don't know if you were in love with a boy or a girl?!"

Angua was beginning to wonder if she'd ever had a stranger conversation.

"Well, I don't know what I don't know," said Sally.

"Not even an inkling?"

Sally arched her eyebrows in a way that only a vampire can –Angua only had the one- and it was very easy to read. It said: I can see right through you, matey, now back-off if you value your blood-supply.

"Ok, cheap shot, sorry. And your mother went along with this?"

"No, I don't think so, but she won't tell me; she says it's better if I don't know."

"And you believe her?"

Sally scowled at her:

"Angua, I trust my mum even more than I trust you; and I would trust you with my soul, if I had one."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that about your mum, but hasn't she given you any idea?"

"Well, sort of. I get the impression that I was considered to be of inferior stock," said Sally, blushing.

Vampires prided themselves on their chalk-white skin. For the sake of blending-in they were generally prepared to darken a few shades, depending on where they were preying. But blushing was considered so _infra dig_ that it could get you banned from all the worst clubs. Few believed they were even capable of it, and that was the root of the problem.

"WHAT!?" Angua exclaimed in disbelief, "Sally, your name is three pages long, your lineage goes back to before there were people and you have more titles than a moving picture; the Agatean Emperor would consider you a step up. Who could you possibly be inferior to?"

"Human blood," said Sally, morosely.

"Yes, I know, you used to drink it."

"No, I mean in me."

"That's where things generally go when you drink them."

"Don't be flippant," said Sally, irritably stamping her foot, "I meant in my bloodline."

"I know what you meant, it's just that you're so cute when you're angry."

"You've never seen me angry. You would like me when I'm angry; I go a funny green colour."

"What, a blue-blood like you?"

"Angua," said Sally firmly, "there is a fine line between joshing with a friend and infuriating glibness; you crossed that line a long time ago."

"Then why are you smiling?"

"Because you appear to know me better than I know myself."

"Does that mean you're going to tell all?"

"No."

"Aww," said Agua sulkily, "why not?"

"Because I have work to do –so do you- and the boys will be arriving shortly. I'll tell you soon."

"We may not reckon _soon_ in quite the same way."

"Well, I promise to tell you before I die."

Angua, though, wasn't so easily deflected:

"But do you promise to tell me before _I_ die?"

"That too," Sally chuckled.

"I'm not entirely convinced."

"Yeah? So, what are you going to do, bite me?"

As soon as Carrot came through the door she could see she didn't have to ask the question. Still, there were wifely duties that simply had to be done:

"How was your day, dear?"

"Khra'tz'grh!" he replied.

"Well, go and wash, we have guests, and wash your mouth out while you're at it, but not with the good soap."

Carrot's shoulders slumped which, given the size of his shoulders, was quite impressive in itself.

"I'm sorry, wife" he said.

Angua would have preferred "darling", but she now knew enough to appreciate that "wife" was one of the most loving and respectful things a dwarf could say. Hey ho.

"Never mind, dinner's nearly ready."

"Is Harry here?"

"Yes, he is, and he doesn't look any happier than you do."

"Good," Carrot affirmed.

"Oh, this is going to be a lovely evening."

It was simply the most awkward meal Angua had attended since her wedding day. In spite of all his assurances that the food was delicious, Harry ate almost nothing; nor did she or Sally. Only Carrot ate heartily: including the green soup, the fish and all the vegetables; a sure sign that he was furious.

"Perhaps we should clear up," Sally suggested, after Carrot's third helping of dessert.

"Yes," agreed Angua eagerly, "and leave the men to their brandy and cigars."

She didn't find that any funnier than the rest of them seemed to. And then a most peculiar thing happened: Sally tripped.

Vampires didn't trip. From second to second they were hyper-aware of their physical bodies. They could no more have an accident than they could sleep in a garlic-lined coffin. But that wasn't the most astonishing thing, because she had never seen anyone move like that before. It wasn't just the speed, which was incredible enough, but the grace with which he did it. Harry pivoted in his chair; caught the plates in one hand and Sally in the other. Sergeant von Humpeding was quite slight, but to catch even a child with one hand…

"Oh, clumsy me," she apologised, taking the plates from Harry and scurrying out the door. Vampires didn't scurry.

"What was all that about?!" demanded Angua, when she joined Sally in the kitchen.

"I don't know," said Sally.

"Yes, you do, don't try that on me."

"Well, I'm not sure then," she conceded.

"About what?"

"About Harry. He's a vampire, of course."

"Who, Harry? No he's not, don't be daft!"

"Yes, he is. Trust me, I know whereof I speak. Who else can move like that?"

"Fine, I'll give you that, so what? So are you."

"No, Angie, I think it might be _him_."

"And by _him_ you mean what?"

"Do I have to spell it out?"

"Oh, you mean HIM?"

"Yes, HIM, who did you think I meant?"

"Well, there are lots of _hims."_

"Don't be stupid, or rude. I could feel it in the way he held me."

"He held you for about a second!"

"Believe me, we can tell."

"Can you, really?" Angua smiled.

For the first time that Angua could remember Sally looked completely nonplussed. And then it began to dawn on her.

"You knew?!" she almost yelled

"Not _knew_ , no, just suspected. It's a copper thing."

"Does _he_ know?"

"I think he probably does now."

Angua didn't think she'd ever seen so many emotions flash across a single face, but for once Sally was lost for words. Angua wasn't:

"You knew too."

"No, I didn't!" said Sally, affronted.

"Then why did you trip?"

"That was an accident!" sally protested. Angua said nothing, but simply waited. Sally blinked first:

"Alright, but I just wanted to see if he was a vampire. I didn't think it was _him_."

"Are you sure?"

"Nooo," Sally wailed, "I'm not sure of anything anymore."

"Finally, an honest answer."

Sally frowned: "So, what do I do now?"

"Well, those two need to talk, and so do we…"

"Right, come to my place, and bring…vine!"

Meanwhile Carrot and Harry were glaring at each other in a way that would have kept meat from going off for months. They both waited until they heard the banging of the door that told them the women had left. And then they waited a good deal longer.

"Well?" said Carrot, finally.

"Well," said Harry, "I had a meeting today with Nigel Trilby of the Small-businessmen's Association."

"How did that go?"

"It was as unpleasant as Lord Vetinari suggested it would be."

"And what did you learn?"

"That he wasn't quite as unpleasant as Cyril Garage of the Concerned Citizens Committee."  
"Sergeant, I am _really_ not in the mood," said Carrot, turning the freezer down another couple of degrees.

"Sorry, sir," said Harry. "They and all the other _community leaders_ seem to object to Omnian businesses."

"Which ones?"

"All of them, though Mr. Garage seems to particularly object to vegetarian restaurants."

"Why so?"

"He didn't seem sure, though he thought there was probably something about not eating meat that was offensive to god."

"Which god?"

"In Mr. Garage's case Offler the Crocodile God."

"He may have a point there."

"I think their point was that Omnians shouldn't be allowed to own businesses at all."

"Then how did they expect them to survive?"

"They didn't seem to care."

"And this is city-wide, is it?"

"As far as I can tell, sir, outside of The Shades, that it is."

"On both sides of the river?"

"Even in the posh bits of Ankh where they never see an Omnian. It's very widespread."

"Even more widespread that you might think," said Carrot, "and I've had a very unpleasant meeting of my own."

"Really, with whom?"

"Kelvin Bridge, editor of _The Post_ , and Lord Bothermore."

"That doesn't sound nice," Harry commiserated, "what was it about?"

"I asked them politely to stop stirring up hatred by printing lies."

"And what did they say?"

"That they were only listening to the voice of the people."

"And what was the voice of the people saying?"

"Whatever Lord Bothermore's newspapers told it to."

"Not very productive then?"

"Oh, it gets worse. I've been sending and receiving clacks all day. It seems that Omniphobia is not restricted to Ankh-Morpork, it's being reported in many parts of the Disc."

"But why?" asked Harry.

"I have no idea," Carrot admitted, "but I think the _why_ might be the least of our problems."

"How so?"

"Read your history. Have you any idea what the Omnian Army was capable of? Of course the soldiers were happy to die for Om, but warriors are always happy to die for their god."

"The difference is that they WERE soldiers?"  
"Exactly. That discipline can easily be recalled, if necessary. Across the Disc Omnians are being mistreated because people think they are helpless and can't fight back. Actually, they _don't_ fight back, but they're far from helpless. Of course, bullies never learn until you black their eyes, but these bullies might not get a black eye, but a spear through their hearts or a sword through their faces instead."

"And we'll be expected to stop it."  
"A policeman's lot is not a happy one."

"I fear a policewoman's lot is not a happy one," said Angua, handing Sally a glass of…vine.

 **Chapter 13**

In main editorial office of _The Ankh-Morpork Times_ , otherwise known as the office, the interruption game was in full swing.

"William, everyone else…" began Sacharissa.

"Who's everyone?" he demanded.

"Oh, let's see: The Voice, The People, The Post, The Clarion."

"And that's _everyone_ is it?" he re-demanded, "sorry for interrupting you."

"You didn't," she said, "that _is_ everyone."

"Oh, yes," he remembered. Then he whirled around and threw some papers across the room. Just for effect, as there was nothing written on any of them.

"William, listen, everyone is reporting this and…"

"They're not _reporting_ it; they're _saying_ it, he corrected, resuming the game, " _our_ reporters are saying…"

"Who do you mean by _our reporterS?_ "

"Alright, our reporter then. And our under the sheets reporter."

"We have a spy?"

"Yes, very close to Lord Bothermore."

"How unpleasant for him, or her, or it. And what does our reporter say?"

"She says it's absolute nonsense; that there isn't a single word of truth in any of it and that those responsible are utter blackguards."

This certainly sounded like Selene, _The Times_ ' sole remaining reporter, who was something of a conundrum, wrapped in a paradox, inside a stumper. To begin with, they were neither of them even sure what species she was. Apart from the tallest, thinnest female either of them had ever seen. A female _what_ remained a mystery. Sacharissa had ventured: sylph, shade, siren and spectre. Though William suspected this had more to do with her over-fondness for alliteration than with any sound reasoning.

What was 00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000undeniable was: she could get absolutely anywhere without being discovered, find out absolutely anything, was always totally accurate, produced precise and perfect copy, never told a lie and, most importantly, never expected any payment.

"And that should tell you all you need to know."

"William, apart from Selene our entire staff is: you, me and Otto, oh, and our secret, spy source. While all the other papers can't hire staff fast enough. The only reason we're still in business is because Lord Vetinari buys our entire print run, sends a few copies to his friends and has people give away the rest on street corners. And because Hadrid Copperplate is prepared to run them off, as a favour, in the downtime when he's working for _The Voice_. _That_ should tell _you_ something."

"What are you saying: that we should be the mouth of the mob?"

"No! But we shouldn't be the mouthpiece of The Patrician either!"

They slumped down in their chairs and glared at each other. Then they thought about it for a bit and just glowered at each other instead. The silence was very, very quiet. In the end Sacharissa cracked it:

"Everybody's saying it," she said, almost confirming her own point, "they can't all just be making it up."

"Selene says they are."

Sacharissa stopped for a moment and looked warily around the room.

"Selene," she said, "if you're there; I'm not saying I doubt you, really. But what about the photographs?"

"WHAT!?" yelled William, unbelieving.

Sacharissa was almost knocked over by all the punctuation.

"They're _our_ photographs. _Otto's_ photographs. Someone broke in here and stole them, don't you remember? Photographs of groups of Omnians defending their homes and shops, that they then printed a lot of lies about. And they didn't publish any of the ones he took of crowds throwing rocks through the windows of Omnian shops."

"Oh, William, for gods' sakes, look at the evidence!" she said, taking four newspaper front pages from her bag and throwing them on the desk between them, " _these_ aren't Otto's photographs!"

"No, miss," said Otto Chriek, materialising out of the shadows, impeccable in evening dress, as always, "ze are not photographs at all, ze are crude iconographs drawn by imps. Ze bear no more relation to reality zan do do ze portraits of ze artists."

"Otto!" said Sacharissa, taken unawares, "how did you get here?"

"I vurk here, young miss, I do not need a pass."

It wasn't as though anyone could forget that Otto was a vampire; the opera-cape was a dead giveaway. And it wasn't as though William had forgotten that, deep down, even the Black Ribboners were still monsters. But he had never before heard Otto speak with such chilling menace. By the shocked and frightened look on her face, Sacharissa hadn't done either.

"I'm sorry," she said, in a trembling voice, "I just didn't realise you were there."

And then he was gone in, if anything, an even more frightening way than the way he'd arrived."

Otto's daft idea had been that he'd wanted to create photography. It had turned him into a joke, –a vampire capturing sunlight- then an artist and finally, an invaluable resource for both police and press. Yet that one swift glance had reminded her of just what a terrifying thing he could become if he ever once lost his granite self-control. When the spooky silence had gone on for far too long, Sacharissa started in again:

"But what about the stories, William? " she persisted, "I'll accept that a dozen could just be a rumour, or a hundred, but thousands and thousands can't all be false."

"Well," said William, "I don't think there are thousands and thousands of stories; I think it's the same four or five passed around like Agatean Whispers until it sounds like everybody's saying…"

"Oh, you're trying to say…"

"No!" said Selene.

She was suddenly there. Otto had sort of become, in a spooky sort of way; Selene wasn't there. And then, all of a sudden, she was.

"There are thousands and thousands of stories; none with any basis in truth; all complete lies. Or perhaps you think I have some reason to lie about this myself."

She looked at Sacharissa in a way that was, by a long way, even colder than Otto had managed. Sacharissa shook her head vigorously.

"And I have no need for a pass either," the look she gave Sacharissa this time drained all the colour from her face, "I work here too."

She looked nervously around but she didn't have any friends in the room and, when Otto came back up from the basement with a large bag, she had one fewer.

"It zimply containz all my materialz," he explained, in case they suspected that it might contain a body.

"And I was just dropping off my last piece of copy," said Selene.

"What are you talking about!?" exclaimed Scharissa, "what about tomorrow's paper!?"

"But nobody reads _The Times_ ," said Selene, frostily, "you said so yourself."

"Well, not _nobody_ ," said Sacharissa, wondering just how long Selene had been there, "it doesn't mean we stop publishing!"

"But don't you we think we ought to if, as _everyone_ knows, we don't publish the truth."

Scharissa let that sink in; then she let it brew for a little and then she uncorked it. Women really could manage a lot of processes in two seconds.

"Oh, right!" she shouted, "I see what you're doing. Everyone's a dupe and an idiot apart from you three, right?"

"Well, not exactly _everyone_ ," said William, "there are quite a few others who…"

Sacharissa was as angry as an angry wasp, that's just been stung by a wasp.

"Oh, you nearly had me there!" she exclaimed, rising in dudgeon so high it should have towered over all of them, "well you can keep your sneering, smug, supercilious self-importance, and much good may it do you!"

And with that she flounced out, slamming the door behind her with such force that they were surprised _The Times_ didn't come down around them.

"A fine exit," said William, "though she's really going to have to get control of that alliteration."

"It's odd to have a woman of whom you are at once so proud and so ashamed," said Selene.

"No one said life wasn't going to be semi-tough," agreed William.

"Never mind zis," said Otto, "zoon ze mob vill be comink vis zee flaming torches, just like ze old days, ah, ah ah…"

"Otto, please," Selene admonished.

"I'm zorry," he apologised, "I vorget myself zometimes."

Selene now took William aside and became far more corporeal than he'd ever seen her before.

"Listen," she said, "Otto wasn't joking. Well, actually he was, but people really are going to come here and burn this building down, tonight."

"How do you know?"

"I'm a reporter, it's on my CV, it's what I do."

"Let them come."

"Oh, don't be stupid. It's time for you to lock up and go.

When William started to object she placed a finger lightly on his lips:

"I know you'd like to stay, to be the last to leave, to go down with your ship… But Otto and I can survive a furnace, we've played this game before, you can't."

"But what are you two going to do?"

"Hmmm, I quite like being the helpless, terrified little girl at the upstairs window. He suggested he could dangle me in just my nightdress, by my skinny little ankle from the roof just as it begins to give way."

"Why on The Disc would you want to do that!?"

"Because one of the people who'd set fire to the place might actually regret that they'd done so."

"But then they might try to rescue you."

"Better still. Listen, William, whatever people may say, Otto is not a monster, and nor am I, but the people coming to burn this place down tonight really are, or are controlled by one."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm not sure, it's just a feeling."

"And what about Sacharissa?"

"She's hard of thinking, I'm afraid. Or she just isn't thinking about what she's hearing."

"Isn't that true of all of them?"

"Well, yes, I suppose, but she's a lot better at thinking than they are. Don't worry about her, she can take care of herself and I'll keep an eye on her too. Get out, lock the door and get yourself safe. We'll be in touch."

William de Worde did as he was told. He even thought of throwing the key on the river; it would only lie there and he could always walk over and pick it up later if he changed his mind. In the end he decided to keep it because it would make a good symbol. _The Times_ was going underground, in fact he could almost hear Lars Larssonson's hammer in the mines where the presses were being forged. He had no idea how he was going to pay for this but he knew that TRUTH would find a way. And then someone cracked him over the head with a brick and knocked him out.

For her part, Sacharissa had long since walked off her fury, then her rage, then her anger and finally even her annoyance. But she still wasn't happy. What she needed was a carefully crafted cup of coffee, and she knew just the place.

There were those who liked the robust jolt of a Klatchian roast and those who preferred the dark mysteries of Howondaland; some went for the subtleties of Genua and still others the bittersweet virtues of Omnia… But her heart would always belong to Quirm and, more especially to Carlito's Caffé. Carlito himself had long since gone to meet The Tall Dark Stranger but he had left instructions that one single exception should be made to his rule of not permitting cappuccino to be sold after eleven o'clock in the morning. The exception was Sacharissa, but she'd been going to Carlito's since she was a little girl. She didn't even have to order.

"Signorina Sacharissa, buonasera," said Giovanni Fabbro from behind the counter, "Ava seat and I shalla bringa da usual."

Sacharissa took a table by the window and waited for her marvellous, milky magic. Giovanni was no more from Quirm than she was, but it paid to keep up appearances, and he did really love his coffee, which was no doubt why it was so good. She was beginning to have some doubts about the Omnians, now that she thought about it. No one seemed to give two hoots about barristas from Quirm, or Genuan sommeliers, or Klatchian chefs, or barmen from Fourecks…so what was it about the Omnians, uniquely, that seemed to get up people's noses? Just then her fabulous, frothy fun arrived.

"Grazi," she said.

"Prego," replied Giovanni.

"How's Mama?"

"Not three bad, miss, not three bad," he said, lapsing into his normal Morpork accent, "she suffers sumink shocking with her lumbago, but she dunt complain, gawds luv 'er."

"Eh, John," she said, as he was turning away, "do you have any problems with Omnians?"

"Well, none o' my business, miss," he said, "but you do 'ear stories duntya."

"Yes, you do. Thank you."

"Itsa no problem," he said, getting back into character, "enjoya youra caffé."

Yes, that was the thing, wasn't it? You heard stories and, if you heard them often enough, in enough different places, then you might start believing in those stories while not worrying too much about where those stories came from.

Sure, the Omnians had a weird and nasty religion, or at least it had used to be nasty, now they just spewed endless love and forgiveness. But their faith wasn't any weirder than worshipping Offler the Crocodile God, and even in their bad old days they hadn't been as bad as the Bitter Brethren of Broch, just for one example. So, what was it about them? And then all of a sudden there were lots of people with torches outside the window. She was tempted to rush out immediately, but more tempted by her delicious, dairy delight, so she drank her coffee as the crowd surged past. And then she latched on to the tail of what she could see was a story; she didn't know what the story was but this was an angry mob and she was still _technically_ a reporter for _The Times_.

Unfortunately, it turned out that the mob didn't seem to know any more about the story than she did.

"So, what's happening?" she asked the man next to her.

"Dunno, love," he said, "bloody Omnians, I suppose."

Well, she could just have made that up herself, couldn't she? Couldn't she?

"So, why are you here?"

"Well, it's an angry mob, innit? And I'm as partial to a mob as the next bloke. See a mob; join in, always good for a laugh."

She tried pushing forward and asking more people but none of them seemed to know any more about why they were there than Mr. Join-a-Mob. And then, unexpectedly, she was back to where she'd been just an hour before; the difference was that now _The Times_ building was on fire. Apparently the Omnians had done it. In the crowd she spotted Muir Dock, one of the reporters from _The Post._

"So, what's going on?" she asked.

"The Omnians have set fire to _The Times_ ," he replied.

"Why would they do that?"

"Who knows?"

"But why _The Times_ , the only paper that consistently defends them? Why not _The Post_ that calls them "cockroaches" and "scum"?"

"Oh, it's just typical of them," he said, automatically, although he looked slightly confused by his own answer.

And then there was a tiny, terrified little-girl at an upstairs window and these people just jeered. Luckily the girl's eyes met hers and she knew it was Selene. But even as she fought through the crowd to get home to a bath and wash the smell of these people off her, she knew she would never feel clean again.

 **Chapter 14**

He had thought of it as a test. Of course, everything was a test of some sort or other when it came down to it. This one had been designed as a test of how compatible he and Bliss were, but also of whether or not his new face could fool even people who had known him. He had dined at the Guild of Cuisiniers –motto: Cum grano salis- often in the past, but he had never before taken a woman there. Not only did chefs not seem to approve of women cooking or being in the kitchen; they didn't seem to approve of women at all. But Patrick always knew to whom he should be _particularly polite_ in order to get his way. Assassins never _bribed_ any more than they ever _murdered_.

So here they were enjoying the fifteen course tasting-menu, each course accompanied a complementary drink: wine, beer, vodka…even water! Though no _chernobil_ , he noted, for gods knew what that stuff would ever complement, apart from major psychological derangement. Over the snail's liver pâté he decided to go for broke:

"Bliss," he said, "how much do you like me?"

"I think you are the most wonderful man I have ever met, or ever hope to meet," she said, "This is delicious, isn't it?"

And here, across this table, was where the very first dumb was struck. He stared at her, open-mouthed, and then she laughed.

"You're not serious, are you?" he said, smiling.

"Of course not, silly," she said smiling back.

He didn't know whether to be relieved or heartbroken.

"Phew," he finally managed. She laughed her lovely, tinkly laugh:

"I'm actually hopelessly in love with you; I was just practising my Ankh-Morpork sense of humour."

Smacked in the gob, again.

"Bliss!" he exclaimed, "you're confusing the hells out of me!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, sounding genuinely contrite, "it's just that some of the other nurses said that's what girls are supposed to do."

Yes, he thought, at least in Ankh-Morpork, he supposed they were.

"So what would you say if I asked you to marry me?"

"I'd say: thank you, my lord, I'd be honoured to be your wife."

"Are you being serious now?"

"No, I'd really say: where's the ring?"

"The engagement ring?"

"Naturally, and would you want me to wear it on my toe or through my nose?"

"Erm, on the ring-finger is more usual. The clue is in the name."

"Really? You're such strange people."

"Bliss, please," he said, exasperated, "would you be serious just for a second?"

"Oh, alright then. I knew the moment I first saw you that I wanted to be your wife, bear your children and spend the rest of my life with you. Is that clear enough?"

Well, he had to say that that was indeed clear enough, even for someone as evidently stupid as he was. So here was the moment.

"Blister the Eyes of the Doubters with the Brilliance of thy Faith Shivarananom, will you marry me?"

"With all my heart, my love."

"You are being serious this time, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes."

"I mean really serious?"

"Any more of this and I might go off you."

"Do I need to ask your father's permission?"

"You already have."

"Really!? What did he say?"

"Patrick," said Blister, frowning, "we've been engaged for about thirty seconds, do you really want to get chucked this early?"

From the soup made from eagles' nests and dolphins' fins to the songbirds drowned in brandy that you had to eat with a napkin over your head, the rest of the meal passed in a blur. When they finally left Patrick was euphoric, while Blister was in a state that his previous girlfriends might have called _merry_ or even _squiffy_ but that Bliss called _pished_. He didn't know where she'd picked that up as he was fairly sure it was a Nac-Mac-Feegle word.

And so they walked along, hand in hand, giggling and kissing, and occasionally lurching violently sideways as if trying to avoid some large, invisible object. They'd decided to take the long-cut back to the Nurses' Home down various little alleys which is how they came to run into _the lads._

Bliss noticed them first, for a variety of reasons, one of which was that Patrick seldom paid attention to people in the street until one of them was stupid enough to try and hit him. He felt her grip tighten and then vaguely detected her trying to yank him backwards. Nurses are notoriously strong, nature of the job, but that rather depended on who you were comparing them to.

"Patrick, run!" she hissed.

"Why, darling?"

" _Them!"_ she tried to yell through clenched teeth and pointed.

"Oh, that's just kids having fun," he said, nonchalantly.

It was a phrase he'd picked up from Bruise, the new barmen at The Duck. Bruise was from Fourecks and had a talent for understating acts of violence that appealed to Patrick. "I just tickled his chin" meant _"I broke his jaw_ ", for example. Because these were as far from _kids having fun_ as the Hub was from the Rim; what they were were nine large, ugly, drunken men whose evenings ended in them doing something horrible to a complete stranger or else they'd go home disappointed. And beat-up their wives.

"Oi, what you doin wif one o' them?" asked The Leader of this Sack who, it turned out, was called Alf.

With one hand Patrick drew Bliss behind him and with the other produced a small book from one of his many pockets.

"Ah, this," he said, brandishing it, "It's called a BOOOOOK and what people do is that they REEEEEAD them. You should try it; you can get ones with lots of pictures in them, it can be fun."

"Are you tryin'a be clever?" said Alf, not quite sure if he was being insulted.

"Hmmm," said Patrick, "well, I wouldn't have to try very hard to be cleverer than you."

 _The Assassins Code_ stated quite clearly: "you must never play with your food; it is unprofessional". However, as with virtually all of _The Code_ , exceptions could be made in exceptional circumstances such as: if you really wanted to. At this point even Alf knew he was being insulted.

"Yeah, is that right, well maybe I'll just 'ave a bit of fun with that little thing you've got behind you," he said and lunged at Patrick, but all he got was an uppercut that knocked him _spark out_. His mates Bert and Fred caught him as fell backwards unconscious, and got a fist in the mouth and an elbow in the eye for their trouble. Steve-o got a forehead on the bridge of his nose and the rest just got what was coming to them; which in this case was Patrick. The whole thing took less than thirty seconds, after which he eased them into a moaning, bleeding, semi-conscious pile with his boot.

"Now listen carefully," he began, "I shall say this only _twice_ , as you are clearly incredibly stupid people: I represent the Ankh-Morpork Watch, and if we find any of you trying anything like this ever again then the experience you've just had will feel like being given a warm bath by a particularly talented Seamstress. So, just to be clear…"

At this point he turned to make sure his audience was appreciating his performance, only to find it looking absolutely appalled. And then she bolted. Once again all his pluses were non-ed, and that brief hesitation gave her the edge in the race.

"Bliss, what's wrong?" he called after her, "where are you going?"

"Go away and leave me alone!" she yelled back, "and don't call me _Bliss_."

"But what have I done!?"

"Don't ever try to see me again!"

And then she was gone. He was quicker than her, but she knew these streets better than he did. There were only two places she might have been headed and the Nurses' Home was closer. He knew, with an Assassin's sense of place, exactly where it was, but he didn't know the quickest way to get there, and he knew she did. There was no way he was going to catch her up.

When he got to the Nurses' Home Bauxite from Troll Security was barring the door.

"Good, evening," said Patrick, putting on his charming voice, "I'd really like to speak briefly with Nurse Blister."

He might as well have tried to charm a wall. Actually, if you thought about it, he _was_ trying to charm a wall.

"No un comes in," rumbled Bauxite, with great finality.

"I just need a few words," Patrick explained.

"No un comes in."

"I don't have to come in; you could just give her a message."

"No un comes in."

"Or perhaps I could speak with one of her colleagues."

"No un comes in."

"Can you say anything apart from 'No un comes in'?"

"Nah." Bauxite affirmed.

Great, now he was being patronised by a troll. Even with all his strength and _skills_ there was no way he was getting through this door. With his Assassins training he could obviously climb up to her window, but he wasn't sure which one that was, and wasn't sure that in this situation it was the right approach…and then there was Shame peeking between Bauxite's legs:

"Patrick, please, you have to leave," she said.

"I just want to speak to her," he pleaded.

"But she doesn't want to speak to you, ever again, and it's breaking her heart. If you actually love her leave her alone."

"What!? Why!?"

"You know why," said Shame, and was gone.

Now, Patrick had heard this many times in the past. In answer to such questions as: why won't you sign over all your assets to me? Why don't you want to involve your best friend in our lovemaking? And on and on, but on those occasions he had, most definitely, known why. This time he didn't have a clue.

Miserably he began to drag his feet back towards The Duck, he might not always like his customers, but he mostly understood them, even the mad ones and the weird ones… but somehow not the girl to whom he'd been engaged not a half-an-hour before and who now never wanted to speak to him again. He had no idea what was going on.

"I have no idea what's going on!" he announced to Kate and Bruise, who were having a nightcap when he got back to the bar.

"What's the problem, mate?" asked Bruise, "you look like shit."

"My fiancée has just called off the wedding and chucked me," said Patrick, morosely.

"I didn't know you were engaged," said Kate, "how long has that been going on?"

"A couple of hours," he replied, offhandedly.

"Strewth, mate," exclaimed Bruise, "that's gotta be a record!"

"What the hells did you do?!" asked Kate.

"Nothing," said Patrick, "that's the problem. At least when I got chucked in the past I knew it was my fault."

"Trust me sweetheart," she said "I am an old head on young shoulders and I know you did something." Then she glared at Bruise as he looked like he was going to laugh. "Tell me what happened?"

"OK," he said, though he wasn't sure he wanted Bruise to hear this, "we were out having a lovely meal. I proposed and she accepted."

"Did you give her a ring?" asked Bruise.

"No, I wasn't expecting to propose to her."  
"There you go then, that explains it. You should always carry a ring, just in case."

"Do you often propose to a girl on the spur of the moment?"

"All the time, mate, famous for it."

"And do any of them ever…?"  
"I hate to interrupt this fascinating conversation, but that wasn't the problem," said Kate.

"No, it wasn't," Patrick agreed.

"So, then what happened?" she asked.

"I was walking her home when we were attacked."

"By whom?"

"I don't know, just a bunch of thugs."

"How many?" asked Bruise.

"Nine."

"And what did you do?" asked Kate

"I beat them up."

"Good one!" exclaimed Bruise, "fair play to you, mate."

"Then that is the whole problem," said Kate.

"Eh!?" said Patrick and Bruise simultaneously.

"Let me quote unto you the Book of Brutha, chapter eighty-nine, verse sixty-five: _It is better by far to suffer infinite hurts than inflict a single one on another._ I have a few Omnian friends."

"Oh," said Patrick, making a rude hand gesture at Bruise's smirking face, "you have got to be forking joking!"

 **Chapter 15**

Sally's little flat was in The Shades, a place where girls really shouldn't walk on their own because it wasn't safe. Luckily, for the local thug-population, word had got around that trying to attack either of these two _girls_ would have been about the un-safest thing they had ever done in their, very soon to be terminated, lives.

It was the tidiest, cleanest most span-and-spick place Angua had ever seen. Vampires were notorious for -among many, many other things- being compulsively, obsessionally, tidy and clean. Sally mostly tried not live down to her stereotype but this was the exception. Though her hair could be tousled, even dishevelled if the occasion called for it, there would never be a single stray hair out of place in this little shrine to order. Angua drew her finger along the top of the bookshelf and tutted:

"Gods, when did you last clean this place?"

"I did it as you were walking up the stairs, as well you know. I'm a Black Ribboner, but giving up cleaning too would be like trying to chuck smoking and drinking on the same day."

"You don't smoke."

"Not anymore, but I used to: long, thin cigarillos, to make me appear more rakish, daring and enticing to the boys. And the girls."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes! The blood tastes just as good, whatever cup you drink it from."

"Sally, stop it!"

"Well, you started it."

"No I didn't!"

"Yes, you did, you invaded…"

"SALLY!"

"OK," she agreed, "pour us some…vine, and I'll tell you everything. Or at least everything I remember."

They were curled up together on the settee, the way they used to be before Angua had had the children. To her it seemed like old times, except all this stuff was new.

"Now, the thing is," Sally began, "it's our dirty little secret and considered rather _infra dig_ …"

"You sleep in coffins full of dirt and bite people for a living. What could possibly be beneath your dignity?"

"Any more of that and I'll be taking my ball back."

"Oh, no!" cried Angua, "I haven't been to a ball in years."

"Oh, sorry, for a moment there I mistook you for my friend. I wonder where she went, I'm sure she was around here somewhere just a moment ago…"

"Ok, alright, I'll behave, sort of, I promise, sort of, but only if it's a good story."

"Oh, it's a belter, I can assure you."

"Then I shall be a good girl and listen carefully."

"Very well, then," Sally began, "as I was saying, we have a little secret: vampires sometimes find humans attractive, and I don't mean just as a snack…"

"Can I just ask something?" Angua interrupted.

"Oh, if you must," sighed Sally, "what is it this time?"

"Is it just humans? Aren't there any dwarf vampires."

"We're not an off-shoot, you know? We're a different species! But yes, there are vampires that prey on dwarfs, but they never come above ground. Now, can I get back to my story?"

"I'm all ears."

"Actually you're mostly fur, but the ears are quite elongated."

"Oh, cheap," said Angua, "and unworthy of you, but I'll stop interrupting. Go on."

"Right, vampires often reproduce dentally; that whole love at first bite thing you've heard about: the right nibble and Fanny becomes Fangsy. This is considered to be perfectly normal and no one thinks any less of these new vampires for having once been human, as there isn't an oz of human left in them. Otherwise we beget much like any other species; though with a great deal more drama and only on dark and stormy nights.

"But once in a while a male vampire may actually mate with a human female and produce a hybrid. This is generally regarded as being rather unsavoury. However, the child –always a boy- usually gains a grudging acceptance and the matter is hushed up. In fact some girls feed on rumours, as well as blood, and like the idea of a bit of human in a man. They think it lends them a certain rakish quality. But very, very rarely it happens the other way round: a vampire mother gives birth to a part-human child.

"Such a child –always a girl- is considered to be an abomination; she should not even exist and, if discovered, is immediately destroyed. Such children can hardly survive into adulthood, given their status, but the merest hint of such a being anywhere in your lineage is social poison."

"Why, for gods' sakes!? What's the big difference?"

"Because the girls have real human feelings. The boys may, occasionally, manifest emotions such as embarrassment, or even fear, but they are otherwise as selfish and heartless as any decent vampire. It is the girls who are rumoured to feel things like empathy and pity."

"Is that what happened to Lucy?" asked Angua.

"No! No one really knows what happened to Lucy, but it wasn't that. Oh, humans can be monsters, but they couldn't do the things that La Donna Lucrezia did without at least feeling something; even if it was only pleasure. And apparently she rather liked being tortured herself," said Sally, doing that whole vampire-eyebrow-arching thing.

"Well that certainly explains a lot, because I think she still does."

"Perhaps," Sally mused, "but there is nothing in her family history, it is impeccable; no suggestion of anything untoward, not the least hint of any act of kindness in centuries."

"Right, well, anyway, back to you."

"Yes, back to me, because I'm the important one. So, there have been rumours of such a girl in our family for as long as I can remember…"

"You can't even remember who the love of your life was…"

"Will you, please, just let me finish?"

"Sorry," said Angua, with no hint of an apology, "was there any truth in these rumours?"

"My mother loves me and I love her back. I sometimes call her 'mum', for gods' sakes! What more evidence do you need?"

"Ah!" said Angua, as the match finally caught, "and you fell in love with someone; it wasn't so much who you fell in love as that you fell in love at all."

"Precisely. We do lust, obviously, but we don't do love. Uh, uh, no way, yuck, yuck, yuck, nasties!"

"A bit tacky?"

"Stickier than glue," Sally confirmed.

"So what are we going to do now?"

"What is this _we_ of which you speak?" wondered Sally aloud.

"If you think for an instant that you're going to exclude me from helping my best friend find her lost love, then I'll blow your house down."

"Not if it's made of bricks you won't."

"Be serious. What future do you envisage here?"

"Oh, I can envisage more futures than I can throw a stick at, and I wouldn't want to go throwing any sticks around you; you'd just fetch."

"Rowf!"

"If you want, though, I'll tell you what's going to happen and it's more melodramatic than one of those _Look! Books_."

"What!? All the celebrity gossip? You don't read those, do you?"

"No, but you do."

"Oh, ah, well, er…" Angua began, suddenly embarrassed, "only since I had the children. They take my mind off things."

"I thought they were aimed at people who didn't have minds."

"Hah! Insults now, is it?"

"Yes."

"Never mind all that, get on with your envisaging."

"Ok, this is what I think should happen. You know Lance-Constable Smite?"

"The cute Omnian boy, yes."

"Well, he belongs with Kate from _The Duck and Run_."

"And why would that be?"

"Because he's sweet and knows almost nothing about anything, whereas Kate knows everything about everything."

"That sounds reasonable, go on."

"Then there's that pretty nurse Blister at Morpork Mercy…"

"Which one is she? They're all pretty."

"The REALLY beautiful one."

"Oh, yes, she's best friends with Smite's girlfriend, Shame, isn't she?"

"Yes, and she should go with Patrick from _The Duck_?"

"Why?"

"Same reasons as Kate and Smite: she's an innocent abroad while he knows far, far, far more than he lets on."

"Doesn't that make him a bit dangerous?"

"Oh, yes," agreed Sally, "but not to Blister; Kate would know."

"And what about Shame herself, if Smite is no longer available?"

"Well, I've been having words with Vlad about her, but I'm not sure he's actually corrigible. Mind you, she only seems to have eyes for Igor and I can't see that as being a bad thing for a girl; as a learning experience, if nothing else."

Angua simply couldn't help herself: "Which Igor?"

"What do you mean _which Igor_?!" Sally demanded, incredulous, "have you seen her with another Igor?"

"Eh, no, I just thought…"

"It better not be Igor who works with Ecth-ray, you know, the one who sets the bones, because he puts the moves on everyone, though he does a massage that is simply to kill for. And if it's Igor from _Stomach and Intestines_ , then he's already married. And if it's Igor from _Heart and Lungs_ then get in line because the queue is already quite long, and I'm in it…"

Angua could only stare. It was as though a door had been opened for the first time and behind it lay…incomprehensibility. In the end Sally took pity on her:

"You can't tell the difference, can you?"

"Between Igors, of course I can; so can everyone."

"That's not what I mean. What you can't tell is that when they say _Igor_ it always sounds different, as different as _Sally_ and _Angua_. And you can't remember one set of mismatched features from another. I don't feel it's fair to ask more of _foreigners_ , but of a fellow Überwaldean…"

"You know, Salicia," Angua sighed, "sometimes you can make a point so sharply that I want to take it and hammer it through you black and evil heart."

"I've told you that that doesn't actually work; it's just a myth. Now, will you hear me out?"

"I don't think I have an option, and I won't say the ears thing again."

"So, Harry with Lucy –he already looks out for her, you know?- because she needs some stability in her life for a while. A couple of centuries ought to do it."

"And Vlad wouldn't do?"

"Gods, no, he'd eat her alive. Possibly quite literally."

"Oh, I don't know. From what I've heard our little Lucy was quite the tyrant back in Quirm. Quite literally."

"That was a long time ago; times change."

"Not as much as you might think," Angua disagreed, "let me tell you what I foresee. Patrick and Blister, yes, for the reasons you mention. On the other hand, Kate has had enough younger men, and I daresay will have a lot more. Now what she needs is someone older, a lot older, so I say Vlad."

"Ok, perhaps," laughed Sally, "though I doubt there's anything we could say that would influence either of them."

"Agreed. But Lucy goes with Smite."

"And your reasoning there would be?"

"She needs someone who will love her without reservation; who will treat her with gentleness and kindness… But above all she needs someone who will forgive her, and mean it."

"And what does Smite get out of this?"

"Anyone that innocent and trusting needs to be protected from the Big Bad World. Can you think of anyone better able to do that?"

"No, I can't," Sally conceded, after a few seconds thought, "not even me. So, Lucy protects Smite and Patrick protects Blister; what about Shame?"

"Well, as you know better than I do, though the hands of an Igor are generally the hands of a healer, if you don't want those very powerful hands around your throat, you shouldn't get on the wrong side of them."

"Which isn't easy to do, given that some of them can see round the backs of their own heads."

"Yes, that's very funny, Salicia," said Angua, clearly unamused.

"Oops, now I'm in trouble," laughed Sally, unabashed.

"It's love, you see, or rather: _you_ don't see. Shame loves Igor; loves him for what he does rather than for what he looks like and, bizarrely, he loves her for the same reasons.

"Oh, you can see the desire and lust in Patrick and Bliss, but you can't see that Smite simply loves Lucy, totally and hopelessly and she loves him back equally; in the brief moments when she allows herself to feel worthy of that."

"Yes, this is a beautiful story, Angua, but not every Omnian can have their own dedicated, highly-dangerous bodyguard."

"No," Angua agreed,"that's what the Watch is for, and why Harry met Sally."

"Oh, you bitch! Literally," snarled Sally.

"Grrrr, who's showing their fangs now?"

The tension between them was so great that had someone snapped it they would have ended up on opposite sides of the Disc. They were nose to nose; they were eyeball to eyeball…and they could both go hours without blinking. Then Angua's eyes tracked a single tear down Sally's cheek.

"Gotcha!"

She hugged Sally to her tighter and harder than she'd ever hugged anyone before, including her children and Carrot. Mostly because if she had done she'd probably have broken their spines. She couldn't work out how anyone could possibly cry so much. Oh, she knew soppy girls, mostly teenagers, who could cry for hours, but that was just time, not volume. After about half-an-hour her dress was sodden, Sally's dress was sodden and there were puddles forming. Angua could understand heartbreak, any woman could, but not the amount of liquid. This simply wasn't possible, unless Sally was tapping into ground water. It certainly wasn't coming from the Ankh, because it was clear.

Eventually, after an awfully long time, the wracking sobs gave way to more low-level distress and, finally, just blubbing.

"Well, we clearly needed to get that out, didn't we?" soothed Angua in her best mum-voice.

"es," was all Sally could manage, in a voice so tiny that no human could have heard it.

"And are we feeling better now?" she asked, brushing her cheek.

Sally just sniffed and then looked up at her with eyes as helpless and trusting as Ire's, yet at the same time so filled with heartache and loss that Angua could feel tears from all over her own body rushing towards her eyes in the hope of breaking free.

"Well, I think we should start with a nice cup of tea and perhaps a piece of cake. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"That would be lovely," said Sally, in a still small voice.

"Would you like a handkerchief?"

Beneath her hands Angua felt a sudden change. What a moment before had been a wet sheet wrapped around some twigs was now muscle and iron once again.

"No thank you, mummy," said Sergeant von Humpeding, producing a piece of silk from her sleeve, "I have one of my own."

"Of course you do," said Angua, "and you don't even appear to need it. It's not as though there are any tears or a runny nose, or anything, though I'd swear there was one here only a second or two ago. Also, you don't have puffy eyes and your makeup doesn't look as though it's run; even though it appears to be all over my dress."

"It's called _Allure_ , you can get it in all the best Perfumier's."

"Oh, good, so what do we do now?"

"Well," said Sally, thoughtfully "I go and have a word or two with Herr Dreck und Messing, while you and Carrot hang around outside the door, to make sure I don't kill him."

"So, do you want to try and put this together again?" asked Harry.

"What, try to remember, you mean?"

"I will if you will."

"Perhaps we won't like what we find."

"That's a risk I'm prepared to take," said Harry.

"I'm not sure I am," replied Sally, "what if we find out that we hate each other?"

"Well, we'll have to ford that river when we come to it. If we're going to work together then we can't do it with this uncertainty between us."

"There is another possibility," Sally suggested.

"Well, I'll sack you if you'd like," Harry shrugged.

"Really?" said Sally, "that's very kind of you. Or you could resign."

"What? Do something noble, you mean?"

"Uh-hu."

"I'm a vampire, did I forget to mention that?"

"Sorry, I don't seem to remember a memo to that effect. And you're not all vampire."

"Enough. So, do you want to try?"

"Alright, but I'm not sure we're going to like it."

"Do you remember how to do it?"

"Sort of, you?"

"After a fashion. Shall we start?"

Sally nodded. They both closed their eyes and reached out towards each other's minds. After a few moments, and still with their eyes closed, they reached out and took each other's hands.

"Are you seeing anything?" asked Sally

"No, you?"

"Nope."

"Wait a minute, can you see Zlobenia?"

"Sort of," Sally replied, "what's the city?"

"Rigour. What a bite that was," Harry sighed.

"Didn't we row down the River Gour?"

"No. I rowed down the River Gour; I don't recall you even touching an oar."

"I was painting my nails."

"You don't have to paint your nails, they do it themselves."

"And?"

"Sorry, I apologise. Anything else?"

"Sailing, in the daylight, on the Great Moulder Lake."

"Were you trying to sunbathe!?"

"Was I wearing a bikini?"

"Yes, you were," said Harry, remembering, fondly.

"No. Wasn't me," said Sally, "modesty was never one of my faults."

"Oh, yes, mmmm…"

"Harry!"

"Sorry, she was just a snack. A sun-light bite, if you will."

"I won't."

"Right, forget that. Now, dig in."

And then it all got quiet and serious.

"Stadtschweinburger, old Mouldavia, All Devils' Eve," mused Sally.

"Schloss Heisshund?" asked Harry, the memory still rather vague.

"We ran away from the ballroom…"

"…down that long gallery…"

"…it was a dark and stormy night…" Sally recalled.

"…you were running away, you were laughing, I was chasing you…"

"…if I'd want to escape, you wouldn't have seen me for smoke…"

"…I caught you by the door of the crypt…"

"…you swept me up in your arms…"

"Our first kiss," they said together and opened their eyes.

"Upyrgrad, the Autumn Palace?" asked Harry.

"Our first _night of passion_. I was young; you took advantage of me."

"You were over forty," he reminded her.

"Exactly," she agreed, "little more than a child."

Harry laughed, in spite of the situation. Sally had always been able to do that to him, he now remembered, another reason that he'd loved her. And he was beginning to remember just how many of those reasons there were.

"And what after that?" he asked.

"Then it gets a little hazy," she replied, ridging her forehead, "actually, it gets very hazy."

"Ok, close your eyes and let's try again."

They both shut their eyes and tried to concentrate. This time he felt Sally grip his hands so tightly it almost hurt. Had he been human she would have broken about fourteen bones.

And then he could see the blazing row he'd had with his parents, his father's monstrous rage and his own, insufficient anger. Then he saw something that wasn't his memory at all but Sally's: his father, towering and terrifying, Sally's mother defending her trembling daughter from his wrath and then…nothing. Blank.

"Keep trying," he urged, but it was no use, whatever came next was no longer part of either of their memories. It had been totally erased.

"Well, Herr Dreck und Messing, what should I do?" asked Sally, unhappily.

"I don't know, Fraulein von Humpeding," Harry replied, no more cheerful, "but I love you. I have loved you since the moment we first met and, whatever you choose, I shall continue to love you until the last moment of my miserable, immortal life. And if you love me, I will never permit anything to come between us ever again. If that helps.

"You know, Harry," said Sally, I think it just might.

 **Chapter 16**

Moo was asleep upstairs in Nanny's bed and all the guests had left. The grumpy, disappointed children had been promised a _Moo's Unbirthday Party_ only a week hence, but that was at least six months in kid years. Now Agnes and Tiffany waited while Nanny sipped her _tea_ and chortled away to herself.

"Are you planning to let us know what happened today any time soon?" Tiffany asked, as sternly as she could in the face of Nanny's overflowing good humour.

"Oh, yes," smiled Nanny, "very soon, my chick."

"What would be _soon_ in human time?" asked Agnes, who had known Nanny longer than Tiffany had.

"Why, right now, my poppets."

There was a long pause while Agnes and Tiffany waited and Nanny sipped her drink and chuckled.

"Go on," they said in unison when they thought they had waited long enough.

"Well, it's like this, she began, as though she were speaking to children, which, from her perspective, is exactly what they were.

"There's good witches and bad witches: them is as good at witching and them as ain't, you see?

They both nodded.

"Now, I'm a good witch and so are you two and so was Esme, gods rest her, and others. But Old Mother Dismass or our own dear queen couldn't witch for chocolate, you get my meaning?"

Again they both nodded, though feeling slightly treasonous with regard to Queen Margrat.

"And then there are Good witches and Bad witches, ones that we couldn't hold a scarlet, dripping candle to. Black Aliss was a rotten, wicked old crone who baked children in her oven, but she had this great evil power that sparked off her and made everyone near her feel sick. And she was powerful good at the witching itself.

"On the other side there was Glinda, the Good Witch of the Hub, who could no more think an ill thought than she could do a bad deed. She went around righting wrongs and healing the sick; just seeing her made you feel glad to be alive. They happen every century or two for no reason anybody knows…

"You'll need to breathe out soon or you'll do yourselves an injury!" she laughed.

They both did, with a great deal of relief, because they hadn't realised they'd been holding their breaths.

"So is Moo a Good witch?" asked Tiffany. Nanny nodded.

"As Good as it gets."

"And that's why we all felt so great at the party?" Agnes asked.

"Yip," Nanny affirmed, "and it's just as well she's so good at being Good, because what she's going to have to beat is something that's really, really, really Bad."

"Where?" asked Agnes.

"When?" asked Tiffany.

" _Where_ is in the Big Wahoonie. As for _when_ , well that depends how quick you can train her up, but don't go taking too long; the omens are gathering."

"Nanny, how do you know all this?" asked Tiffany.

"Because, my pet, I'm near my end and it is given to us witches to see things at that time." Both young witches suddenly looked sombre, but Nanny just laughed: "oh don't you go worrying about me, I'm quite looking forward to it. I likes an adventure and a chat with the Tall Man. And I might get to see Esme again."

They both smiled and suddenly felt very cheerful.

"I think young Miss Smith has just woken-up," said Nanny.

Sure enough Moo came down the stairs a moment later with a dozy smile on her face. But then her face dropped.

"Aw, where is everyone, did I miss the party?"

"They all had to go," said Tiffany.

"Even Margs!?" asked Moo, with a face that would have melted a banker's heart.

"Yes, my chick, we made her go," said Nanny, "but they'll all be back next week and we'll have a proper birthday party for you. As long as you promise not to faint."

"Yippee," cried Moo, clapping her hands "I promise!"

They all knew that Moo wouldn't faint the next Saturday because, more than anyone on the Disc, she was a woman of her word.

"On the other side, though," Nanny continued, and both Agnes and Tiffany could actually feel Moo's apprehension, "You're going to have to start learning proper witching from tomorrow."

"Whoopee!" she whooped, jumping up and down, and they felt the joy surge through them. It was like drinking North Field, but without all the staggering about; or the hangover. She really did make you feel good to be alive.

Moo's _Other Birthday Party_ came and went and everyone said it was the best time they could ever remember having; without actually being able to say why. And then the training began, if _training_ it could be called, because it was a lot more like pointing and watching.

Tiffany taught her how to fly a broom by basically giving her a broom and saying "fly it". Yes, they'd chosen the branch together -and chanted the charms –but Moo had trimmed it herself and, after they had gathered the twigs, she had taught her how to bind them. But then Moo had jumped on the finished article and been gone, in an instant. Admittedly, her first landing hadn't been great. She'd come in too fast, tried to stop too quickly, buried the tip in the dirt and smashed into the privy. That had required sponging down in a warm, herbal bath and massaging with various soothing balms. But the next morning, black and blue all over, she couldn't eat her breakfast fast enough so that she could get back on.

Agnes told her it was the same with her. One day of basic hexing and she had made Mr. Dunkanschmidd feel so bad about beating his dog that he'd thrown himself in the river and had had to be fished out before he drowned himself. Agnes had admitted to being slightly disappointed.

It wasn't empathy it was Ifeelexactlywhatyoufeelpathy. Tiffany didn't know how she coped with it. When a baby cried Moo's shoulders slumped, and then she straightened them and the baby stopped crying. An old curmudgeon would be almost apoplectic about some children in his apple trees and Moo would look thoughtful; suddenly Mr. Grumpy would smile ruefully and mutter: "Oh, I suppose I was a kid once." Nanny had been right, unsurprisingly, Moo was goodness made manifest and she did it without any seeming effort, apart from the bees.

Granny Weatherwax had taught Tiffany how to _borrow_ and Tiffany had taught Moo. They could slip inside another creature's mind and just sit there, watching. They never tried to influence the hawk, the badger, the eel…they just observed. It was part of the reason witches knew so much, about so many things. But of course some creatures were more difficult than others. Dogs were ridiculously loyal, cats were incredibly selfish, horses were mostly insane and snakes were surprisingly good at mathematics.

But they could get down all the way to insects. It wasn't much fun being a fly as they had about as much brain as a pebble had and annoyed every creature on the Disc including, it would seem, themselves. It was hard to work out how they ever managed to make little flies, though they seemed to do it in prodigious numbers. But flies were easy enough, not like bees.

Tiffany had learned early that there was no such thing as _a bee;_ there was _a hive_ and then there was _The Swarm._ She had difficulty coping with a hive, highly intelligent though it was, because it felt a bit like being aware of your own cells, so she generally left The Swarm to itself. Moo, on the other hand, loved it.

It was hard to assess Moo's happiness level as it started somewhere between really pleased and ecstatic, and then went up from there, quite steeply. But she always got her biggest buzz off the bees. And being with Margs. Tiffany had a best friend; _so_ best that she thought she would lay down her life for Agnes if it came to it. Though it would be thought hard to describe how someone could possibly feel more for another than that, it was as nothing compared to how Moo and Margs felt about each other.

She'd first felt this when they'd been sitting up with Moo after the _mysterious incident that had happened somewhere or other_. She'd wondered sometimes in the past if Margs had a bit of witch in her too, but now she wondered if she had a bit of Good Witch in her because that night, she would swear, she actually _felt_ how much Margs cared for Moo and how worried she was. And it was an awful, awful, awful lot.

Then one morning she had woken to find Moo standing by her bed looking tousled and excited, but as that was the way she looked most of the time, Tiffany didn't give it much thought.

"Mizzz" she said, "therezzz zzzome little blue men in the kitzzzen, who zzzay they want to zzzzpeak wizzzz you."

"Moo, have you been at the bees again?" she asked, mock sternly, "you know I've warned you about that."  
"Beezzzz? Yezzz, Mizzzz," said Moo, as incapable of lying as ever.

"Well, give yourself a shake," Tiffany scolded, "you need to clear your head."

Moo's obedience gene kicked in and she literally gave herself a shake. Tiffany managed to suppress her laugh.

"Better now?" she asked.

"Not quite, Mizzz," replied Moo, and shook herself again. This time Tiffany couldn't stifle a giggle.

"Did that help?"

"Yes, Miss, all better now."

"Good, because I've dealt with these wee, blue men before and we'll need clear heads; just to decipher their accent."

There was no sign of them in the kitchen, where Moo had seen them, and no evidence they had been there, but that was their way: a place was either going to be completely untouched, or a complete wreck.

"Come oot, come oot, wherever youz ur; the game's a bogey," said Tiffany.

One tiny, tattooed, kilt-wearing package of bad-temper emerged from behind the biscuit tin and the other popped out of the coal scuttle.

"Hullaw, Big Lassie," said the less diminutive of the two.

"Do I know you?" she asked.

"Naw, but we know you, Mistress Tiffany. I'm Magnus Og and this is Lachie Mór."

The Nac-Mac-Feegle really did have ideas above their stature. She was surprised that Moo had even seen them, especially with a headful of Beezzz, though she probably shouldn't have been. It wasn't just their tiny size; it was the furious speed at which they moved that made them almost invisible to _bigjobs_. In fact, some _bigjobs_ couldn't see them even when they were being beaten senseless by them. Not that a Nac-Mac-Feegle would tend to attack a _bigjob_ other than on his own, as though he needed to be _mob-handed_ ; "Oh, the shame of the thing!" A fight between a six-inch Pictsie and a six-foot man was barely a contest at all.

Their interests were few: cattle-rustling, fighting and drinking almost unbelievable quantities of whisky. Tiffany and the Wee Free Men went way back, so she knew her duties as a hostess.

"Would ye tak a huge dram an tell me aw aboot yersels?"

"Aye, hen," said Magnus, "And everythin they said aboot ye is true."

Moo watched in astonishment as Tiffany took two small glasses –about half the size of the little men themselves- and filled them to the brim from a bottle of whisky that she kept under the sink for just such occasions.

"Aw, ya wee brammer," said Magnus, as he and Lachie drained their glasses in one. Moo thought that much whisky would have knocked her unconscious, but the little men seemed completely unaffected and just held out their empty vessels, which Tiffany dutifully refilled.

"Now," she said, sitting down and motioning Moo to do the same, "tell me why you're here."

"Weel," said Magnus, Lachie was a fighter not a talker, "oor Kelda has been talkin tae your heid bummer…"

"You mean Nanny Ogg?" Tiffany interrupted.

"The very wummin," said Magnus.

"And what have they decided we're going to do?"

"Go doon to the Big Place; there's fichtin tae be done. And there's loads a coo beastie and huge drams tae, so we've been telt."

Tiffany knew enough about the Wee Free Men to know that they would happily have travelled all the way to Ankh-Morpork just for a good ficht; the easy availability of beef and whisky was simply an added bonus.

"And why are you telling me this?"

"Fur we're away the morra and we're tae meet ye there."

"And how long will it take you to get there?"

"Oan these wee legs? A while, mibbe a while an a hauf."

The Nac-Mac-Feegle didn't reckon time as others did, so Tiffany was forced to work it out for herself. It was a long way to the Big City and they did, indeed, have very short legs, but what they lacked in stature they more than made up for in stamina. They would run there for most of the twenty-two hours in the day, stopping only to snaffle coo beastie and swally huge drams where they could find them. Tiffany thought it would still take them about a month.

"Then we'll see you there," she said, when she had finished calculating, "Give my regards to Big Senga."

"Wull dae, missus," said Magnus, and they were gone.

"What!" asked Moo, her eyes like saucers, "were those?"

"Those, my child, were the Wee Free Men, and we're going to be going on a long journey fairly soon."

"Yipee," yipped Moo, clapping her hands.

I wouldn't _yip_ too early, she thought, it's far more likely to be pee.

 **Chapter 17**

Katy had been Lord Bothermore's PA for nearly six months. It was a fabulous lifestyle: opera, ballet, grand balls, glamorous parties, cruises down the Djel, sunbathing on his yacht in the Circle Sea, safaris in Howondaland… and she hated it. Almost as much as Lord Bothermore did himself.

Firstly, it wasn't a job. Oh, she kept his diary and answered his mail, but that hardly justified her salary. She wasn't his _personal assistant_ she was his _pretty addition_.

Not that he tried to push his attentions on her –unlike his horrible son Rupert- as he wasn't interested in her _in that way_ , though he didn't seem to mind if other people thought he was. Of course, she loved the opera and the ballet –when she was able to ignore Lord Bothermore snoring beside her in the box. And she even sometimes enjoyed some of the _society events_ so grovelling reported in _Tittler_ –owner, Lord Bothermore- and she liked good food and dancing and… the real problem was that she despised her employer with every fibre of her being.

He was an ignorant, arrogant, selfish, greedy, slovenly, ugly, uncultured bully who hated people. Not just the "common, gods-fearing, average people-in-the-street" whom he claimed to represent, but people in general. In fact she found it difficult to think of anything he actually liked. He gave the impression of being a _bon vivant_ and, on account of his size, everyone assumed he loved food and wine. But actually he only drank wine for show, and then only sipped at it. As for food, he did consume huge quantities of that, but it was essentially the slurry he'd been fed at boarding-school, and he seemed to derive little joy from it.

Everything about him was false, not just his teeth. He bought fine wines from Genua and Quirm, but only because they were expensive, as he seldom drank anything other than water and tea. He _dined out_ at the swankiest restaurants, but he barely touched the food – preferring to have boiled beef and carrots when he got home instead. As far as she could see the only things he took pleasure in were: humiliating people, killing defenceless animals and boiled sweets, and the ones he liked were anything but sweet. His preferred brand came from a tiny Hubward place called Alba and were reputedly made by pictsies. Out of curiosity she had once tried one of these _Sewer Plumes_ and had spat it out after one suck. It was so sour that she thought her face was going to collapse in on itself. It was like eating bile, and Katy couldn't think of a more appropriate symbol for her employer.

Lord Bothermore knew he was almost universally hated –for all his myriad faults, he wasn't stupid- and it didn't seem to bother him in the least. Rupert, on the other hand, genuinely didn't seem to understand why people found him so distasteful.

From a distance she could see, or used to be able to see, that he could be considered handsome. She had never liked quiffs, but that apart, his features were, objectively, not unattractive. She thought he was too thin and his shoulders were too narrow, but she could see how some girls might be drawn to him. Until they met him.

His sense of entitlement was quite astonishing. His every whim had to be satisfied immediately else he would fly into a petulant, toddler-rage and thcream and thcream until nanny came to sooth him. So, when Katy rejected his attentions he got in a huff of such gigantic proportions that he went to his father demanding that he force her to yield to him, or sack her. Surprisingly –or perhaps not- Lord Bothermore decided that he rather preferred Katy to his own son. Rupert had sulked for a month.

And then he had emerged with renewed purpose and vigour: he would woo her! Now, Katy had previously worked for _Tittler_ so she had seen many immature, over-privileged young men ineptly try to win the hand of a fair maid, but Rupert's efforts really took the teacake. First, there was his poetry. She had tried to illustrate his in-efforts to her friend Susan with a poem of her own:

 _Roses are red; violets are blue,_

 _This poem doesn't rhyme,_

 _And what's more it doesn't even scan properly, or at all._

Perhaps because Susan was a teacher she had sworn she would kill him and, given that she was Death's granddaughter, this was no idle threat.

Then he had tried song, but a terrible lyric is hardly going to be improved by being set to music by someone who has no sense of rhythm, can't play an instrument and is tone deaf. But actually even the most beautiful tune ever created would not have moved her. What Rupert seemed unable to grasp was that the most unattractive thing about him was his personality, or lack of one. There was literally nothing he could promise her that would make her despise him less. He could shower her in jewels and dress her in gold, but her bedroom door would remain locked. At least she was allowed to lock her door, unlike the maids.

It was bad enough in the city; Bothermore Towers was run on fear: servants were routinely mocked and often beaten. But it was worse in the country. At Bothermore Hall they were daily degraded and frequently whipped. Meanwhile Lord Bothermore himself shot birds, whose wings had been clipped, with a crossbow or rode around on a horse while a pack of dogs tore a fox to pieces. She couldn't remember precisely but she was fairly sure that in Doctor Johnsdottir's _Definitive List of Words; With Appropriate Explanations_ , this had not been the definition of "hunting".

Susan had been amazed that she could bear it, but the reason was simple enough: her father was dead, her mother was poorly, she had two younger sisters, there weren't that many occupations that were open to girls, and she couldn't support them all on a teacher's salary.

She had first become friends with Susan when they had both been teachers at _Martia David-Blane Academy for Young Ladies_. Katy had taught "Spelling and Grammar" while Susan had taught "Counting". Men were allowed to teach "Language and Literature" and "Mathematics" to young ladies, but young ladies weren't allowed to do so themselves. If Susan had been surprised that Katy could put up with being Lord Bothermore's PA; Katy had been astonished that Susan could stand being a teacher. She was far and away the most intelligent person Katy had ever met and had a personality so forceful that it could bend iron bars; she really ought to have been queen of somewhere. Of course she was but she was currently in hiding, having been overthrown by her wicked uncle in a palace coup. Her lover, Prince von Zummthink was being held in the dungeons of the Royal Palace even now and…

She had asked Susan early in their friendship why she liked teaching and Susan had replied, simply: "Because I'm good at it." This was certainly true. Susan could take the worst achieving, most ill-disciplined class and turn it into a well-behaved collection of excellent students, in one lesson. She somehow managed to convey her love of learning to them by sheer will. Of course, it helped that she could terrify them with a look and so didn't need to beat them. But then she could have done that to most of the people on the Disc.

Katy wasn't a particularly good teacher, but she too had a talent: she was very good at spinning a yarn. She had been good at making up stories since she was a little girl, which was probably why people seldom believed a word she said, even when she was telling the truth. On the other hand, it made her the perfect employee for _Tittler_ a magazine which had never knowingly printed a single word of truth in its whole, admittedly short, existence. Her entire job had been to invent things about famous people and claim they were rumours. As long as they were vaguely believable, and slightly scandalous, no one seemed to mind: not her editor, not her readers and certainly not the celebrities themselves. And, crucially, it paid three times what a teacher earned.

She'd actually rather enjoyed it and would probably have continued to work there quite happily, but then she'd been offered a promotion. She really didn't think it had anything to do with ambition; it had simply been more money and more money made her more easily able to fulfil her responsibilities. But the greater rewards came at a price. She'd assumed that she'd be doing the same job for the gossip column in _The Post_ as she'd been doing for _Tittler_ –they were both owned by the same man, after all- and, to some extent she was, but there was a key difference: she now had to be nasty.

The famous people she wrote about in _Tittler_ had rather liked her stories, some had even written to her, pretending the things she'd invented were actually true. But she'd been accusing them of having love-affairs with glamorous people and getting slightly tipsy at fabulous parties in exotic places. Now she was insinuating they were mentally unstable, adulterous alcoholics. Unsurprisingly, they weren't nearly as happy, but this was stated editorial policy. Everything was nasty about _The Post_ and everyone who worked for it, from Kelvin Bridge (the editor) all the way down to Rupey Murddy (the post-boy). It was a horrible, horrible place to work; which was why she had grabbed the chance to become Lord Bothermore's PA, and that was almost worse. All of this explained, she hoped, why she had chosen to turn informer.

There were only two newspapers in Ankh-Morpork. Oh, people thought there were five, but as _The Clarion, The Post, The People_ and _The Voice_ more or less said exactly the same thing in, decreasingly, fewer and shorter words, it boiled down to Bothermore Press and _The Times_. She didn't always agree with what she read in _The Times_ –or, more accurately, she didn't always like what she read in _The Times_ \- but she never agreed with anything she read in the others. She wouldn't believe _The Post_ if it told her the world was flat. All the Bothermore papers just made stuff up and didn't mind admitting it. Of course they wouldn't admit it to their readers, but none of the _reporters_ on any of them thought they were reporting anything, or that there was a single word of truth in what was printed under their bylines.

Now, _The Times_ had been pointing this out for ages, but hardly anyone read _The Times_ and, in any case, people believed in what they felt like believing, regardless of any so called facts. But then something changed. _The Times_ started to report on stories that appeared in _The Post_ days before they actually appeared in _The Post_ and often days before _The Post_ claimed they happened. It took a while for this to come to people's attention, but eventually _The Times'_ policy of having little boys give it away on street corners started to pay-off. Some of _The Post_ 's less stupid readers began to wonder to each other if _The Times_ being able to predict something _The Post_ was going to say happened even before _The Post_ said it happened might mean it didn't actually happen at all. Of course it is far easier to con someone than to convince them that they've been conned, but even the thickest of dimwits doesn't like being had.

Kelvin Bridge was furious, but Lord Bothermore was almost apoplectic. How dare people not believe him just because he was lying!? But what made them both madder still was that they couldn't understand where _The Times_ was getting its information from. They knew about Selene, naturally, and were in awe of her ability to become part of the background when she chose, but they now had imps who could detect her presence and they always had several around when they were discussing "editorial policy". All the reporters were as venal as they were themselves but had nothing to gain by letting it be known that they were just making stuff up. They couldn't imagine where the leak was coming from. That it might be coming from Katy simply never occurred to them.

Miss. Hopkins was a girl and therefore of no consequence, provided she was polite, pretty and dressed provocatively. She could no more be the source of the leak than she could become Patrician, and it was Vetinari that they all suspected was behind it. In fact behind everything. And they weren't far wrong. For her part, Katy was enjoying herself immensely. It was fun to watch a bunch of silly, nasty men chasing their tails, while the spy was right in front of them but she also felt she was performing a civic duty. Plus even her contact at _The Times_ –Sacharissa Cripsplock- didn't know what was happening. They would meet for lunch once a week and pretend to be girlfriends –which by now they actually were- and at some point Katy would slip her an envelope. The story was that this was money and instructions from The Patrician, when actually it was "insider information" on Bothermore Press. She enjoyed being sly, secret and surreptitious even with Sacharissa, though she suspected Sacharissa was having a strange effect on the way she spoke.

It was all a great laugh, until the Omnians burned down _The Times._

Of course Katy knew that the Omnians hadn't actually burned down _The Times_. The giveaway had been the headline in _The Post_ : "OMNIANS BURN DOWN THE TIMES!" She had discovered during her time as one of "Bothermore's Bitches" that the most reliable guide to what was true was: the opposite of what _The Post_ said it was. So far it hadn't failed her once. The main reason that Katy had decide to go over to the other side had been the constant drip of snide insinuations and nasty little lies about Omnians that appeared in _The Post_ and all its sister papers. Now, with _The Times_ gone she didn't know what she was going to do, but she knew she was going to do something. Whatever the risk.

 **Chapter 18**

Patrick simply couldn't work out what was expected of him. He had defended not only the honour but, quite possibly, the life of his future wife from vicious, racist thugs and she hated him for it. So much so that she no longer wanted to be his wife. What was he supposed to have done, let them have her?

He'd had many love affairs before and whenever one of his lovers had decided to be awkward, in the hope of gaining some advantage in the game, he'd simply shrugged and moved on to another. And if it had been only Bliss's beauty that had drawn him, then he would have done the same now, but it wasn't. He was in love; completely, hopelessly and painfully, in love. And they hadn't even made love. She was stunningly beautiful, true, anybody could see that, and she was sweet and kind and caring –though that was partly to do with the job- but she was also witty and intelligent and could be crude and sarcastic and even cynical on occasions, like all nurses. And when she sang a sad song it could break a heart at a hundred paces. She was the only woman in the world for him, and she couldn't bear the sight of him. He now truly understood the meaning of the word "lovelorn". If it went on for much longer he'd end up writing poetry, or at least reading some. Clearly something had to be done.

He'd tried Smite first, his only male friend, and now drinking buddy.

"Come on, mate," said Patrick, over a dozen or so pints in _Biers_ – _The Duck_ would have been too much like being at work.

"I honestly don't know what I can do," said Smite morosely, draining his glass and calling for two more.

"Well, you could talk to Shame for me."

"Shame and I are no longer seeing each other," said Smite, staring into his glass, which was as empty as his life now felt.

"Oh," said Patrick, "I'm sorry to hear that.

As an Assassin, albeit not a fully-qualified one, Patrick was almost as honest with himself as a vampire was, so he knew that his professed sympathy for his friend's loss was really disappointment that he could be of no help in addressing his own. Still, the proprieties had to be observed:

"What happened?"

"She found someone else."

"Oh, who?"

"Igor," muttered Smite, miserably.

Now, Patrick would be the first to concede that his friend wasn't exactly a matinee idol like those that you might see at The Odium, but he wasn't ugly, not like…

"Which Igor?" he managed to ask.

"That's what I said."

"And…?"

"She just smiled"

Igors had become famous across the Disc for their ability to please women in a certain way, at least among women. But he very much doubted that any Igor had been pleasing Shame, as she wasn't that kind of girl, so he couldn't see what the attraction was. It certainly wasn't going to be his looks.

Next he tried her parents, with no more success. To some extent even trying to reason with someone who believed in Om smacked of futility, but he really felt that he and Mr. Shivarananom had understood each other.

"I'm sorry son, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do."

"But can't you reason with her?" Patrick pleaded.

"It wouldn't do any good," said Mr. Shivarananom, sadly, "when her mind is made up, then Brutha himself could hardly sway her."

"But I was only trying to protect her…"

"Oh, I know you were, but she has been a Daughter of the League against Violence since she was ten, and she has a will of steel."

"So, it's hopeless then?"

"Unfortunately, yes. And that's a shame; I was looking forward to having you as a son-in-law."

Patrick found it hard to interpret the look that accompanied this last remark, but he had a feeling it meant that things weren't quite as hopeless as he was making out.

After that his training kicked in "Negotiation Skills 101: If you cannot sway them by reason, then discover their weaknesses and exploit them".

It was a scheme so despicable that only an assassin could have come up with it. It stank so badly that, if it worked, then Bliss could never be allowed to find out about it, or she really would be entitled never to speak to him again.

Like all assassins, or at least all the ones who made it to graduation, he could detect the sweet scent of trouble over a considerable distance. Usually this sense was used for the purpose of avoiding it, but it could easily be turned the other way and so, each day after work, he went looking for trouble.

Trouble wasn't hard to find in Ankh-Morpork, and in The Shades he was almost jumping up and down in brightly-coloured clothes, blowing a whistle and waving a banner saying: I'M TROUBLE! But Patrick wasn't looking for just any old trouble, he had something more specific in mind.

He didn't try to interfere with any accredited Thieves or Assassins going about their lawful business, of course –though he would occasionally chase off some freelance muggers- no, he was only interested in Omnians being attacked, and it was easy enough to find them these days. It wasn't so much in the Omnian Quarter itself –cowards and bullies always like to do the outnumbering themselves- but in the streets adjoining it.

Typically he'd find some poor bugger being beaten-up and, just watch for a bit. Oh, he wouldn't let them actually get beaten to a pulp before he intervened, just to something a bit squishy; it was a matter of authenticity: you couldn't take someone to the Mishap & Urgency Department unless they'd had a good battering. He made exceptions, naturally. He didn't actually allow any of the women to be raped, but he did, gods forgive him, allow them to be molested, roughed-up and have their clothes torn, before he kicked seven orders of ordure out of the perpetrators.

Then, the Spirit of Compassion that he was, he would sweep the victim up in his arms and bear them swiftly to Morpork Mercy, as if to have their injuries treated but, in reality, to make Blister upset and try to shame her into having him back. He began to wonder if what he was feeling was, for the first time in his life, guilt? Was that even possible?

Anyway, that was Act One: Setting the Scene. Act Two was Playing to the Gallery.

"I could have stopped all this," he would explain, plaintively, to whichever Igor was on duty that day/night, "but then I might have had to hit someone."

"Well, Thur," Dr. Igor would reply, "you would have thertainly have thpared him a great deal of thuffering."

Or on other occasions:

"At leatht you thaved her from a fate worth than thethation of life."

He thometimeth wondered if Igors deliberate chose words with "S"s in them jutht for effect.

He had to avoid talking to Bliss, or even catching her eye, but he would sometimes throw her a sideways glance to see if his plan was working; it wasn't. At least not initially. She would go about her business of ministering to the thricken -he was thtarting to feel the effects of all that time thpent in M&U- but she paid him no attention, even when he traipsed out morosely, sighing deeply, in search of another mark.

But then things started to change. He thought it might have been the sheer numbers, which had actually surprised even him, though he was accustomed to thinking the worst of everyone. Bliss wasn't always working in M&U, yet he still saw her at least once a day. You didn't have to look far these days to find some poor Omnian being put to the Question Extraordinary. However as, until the Reformation of Brutha, Omnians had been subject to centuries of torture for the slightest deviation from Thcripture –he was going to have to do thomething about thith- so they were used to pain and suffering –that's better- and simply accepted it as their lot. Therefore, unless someone was actually murdered, all these assaults never got reported. They just accepted their fate. Bliss must have known this was the case, yet her faith, like all faiths, blinded her to reality, but eventually it got to the point where she could no longer ignore it, or him.

He was dragging his sad feet out of M&U one night –having delivered another poor wretch into the hands of skilled Igors and gentle Omnians- when Bliss grabbed him by the arm. For such a slight figure she had a remarkably strong grip, probably to do with nursing, he supposed. She dragged him into a linen cupboard that smelt of starch and freshness and frowned at him more sternly than anyone had done since Nanny McPict, when he was seven.

"I know what you're doing," she said.

-I sincerely hope not- he thought.

"And I know that my people are suffering, but that doesn't mean I can condone violence. Did not Brutha say: To he who punches you in the mouth say 'kick me also in the scrotum'?"

"Well," said Patrick, "if he did he must have been smoking Gangaweed at time."

"Oh, Patrick," she wailed, "what you are doing is so admirable."

-It really, really isn't- he thought.

"But I can never accept violence."

"Listen, Bliss," he said, using the low, even tones that you should if you think you're winning the argument, "Bauxite guards the Nurses Home. What do you think he uses to persuade unwanted visitors from entering, strong language!?"

"I..I don't know, I've never thought about it."

"Well, it'll take him about a week to construct a sentence and half a second to throw a punch; have a guess."

"You think I'm being a hypocrite?" she asked, and Patrick for the first time sensed uncertainty in her voice.

"No, but I'm not sure you've thought through all the ramifications."

"But morality must be absolute, else it's not morality."

"I know! But there are degrees of wrong. Is it wrong for me to stop a man from killing a baby, even if the only way to stop him is to kill him?"

"Clearly much more research has to be done in this area," she mused.

Then she threw herself into his arms and kissed him with more passion than he thought it was possible to feel, never mind express. In fact, unlike their previous kiss, this was more like lust than passion. From then on clean sheets would always make his pulse race and remind him that, at some point, he was going to be made to pay for his sins.

 **Chapter 19**

If Katy had hated her job as a Personal Assistant, she found that she was really beginning to enjoy her job as a spy. Of course she was still surrounded by horrible, nasty people but that was always going tobe the case when you were living among the enemy, and it was dangerous. OK, it wasn't like wartime, if she were caught it wasn't like she'd be hanged or anything, but she'd be sacked, and with no reference it'd be hard for her to get another job. With four mouths to feed that was a pretty scary prospect. Also, given the nature of some of Lord Bothermore's _associates,_ she might be in for something rather more unpleasant than mere unemployment. It was the excitement and fear that got her through the dull days, but they didn't help her sleep at night.

And then there was Sacharissa. Katy found herself looking forward more and more to their meetings, or their _assignations_ as Sacharissa liked to call them. Part of the tingle was their surreptitious nature. Meeting in different, often out-of-the-way places, sometimes in disguise, leant them a certain cachet, though on occasion the _disguise_ amounted to no more than wearing a scarf or dark glasses. Still, the forms had to be observed, even though they couldn't be. It was for the look of the thing, even though they should never be seen. It was a funny old world, this spying game.

But partly, for Katy at least, the tingle came from just meeting, so much so that she was starting to take bigger and more frequent risks: listening in to secret conversations, sneaking looks at diaries, even pinching documents; all to impress her contact in the press. In truth it was more than that now, though how much more Katy wasn't sure.

Sometimes their _business_ consisted of little more than the transfer of a few papers from Katy's handbag to Sacharissa's satchel but they would then spend a couple of hours over lunch, laughing and chatting like the girlfriends they were rapidly becoming, at least to Katy's mind, and Sacharissa never seemed to be in any hurry to get away from her _source._

They were currently in _Il Pasto_ , a Quirmian restaurant on the Right Bank having _spaghetti a la vongole_ with a chilled white wine. It always amazed Katy that Quirmian restaurants seemed able to supply endless quantities of cold wine even at the height of summer, when most of the boats bringing ice from the hubward mountains were delivering little more than freezing water. There were rumours of a fiendishly clever Leonardo device called a _Keepcoldirator_ but then there were always rumours of something or other. She worked for someone who had built a career around them.

"So, who chose Sacharissa for you?"

"My dad, he said I was hundreds of times sweeter than sugar. Embarrassing, isn't it?"

"Awww, no, I think it's, well, sweet," laughed Katy.

"Ha," said Sacharissa, "at least I'm not as bad as the goddess Aspartame, she's supposedly 18,000 times sweeter than sugar."

"Oh, I know all about embarrassing names," said Katy, ruefully.

"Really?" wondered Sacharissa, "I can't see anything embarrassing about _Katy_."

"That's my pseudonym."

"Oh, what's your real name?" asked Sacharissa, suddenly intrigued.

"Cowslip," replied Katy, blushing.

"Awww, such a pretty flower," Sacharissa giggled.

"But a very silly name," said Katy, "still, it could have been worse."

"Really, could it?"

"Oh yes, I have two sisters."

"And what are their names," asked Sacharissa now on tenterhooks.

"Belladonna and Kniphofia."

"Oh," she sounded rather disappointed, "those are rather pretty."

"Well, yes, certainly prettier than Deadly Nightshade and Red Hot Poker."

"Ah, your mother was a bit of a horticulturist "

"Yip, and I think she smoked a lot of weeds."

Sacharissa nearly choked.

"Here," said Katy, "have some more wine, and then clam-up."

"Ok," she said, taking a gulp, "I promise I won't tell any of our friends that you're called Cowslip. But as we have no friends in common, that shouldn't be too difficult..."

Ouch, thought Cowslip, that hurt

"…now I really have to leave,"

"But we haven't got the bill yet," Katy protested.

"It's alright, darling, I've already paid."

Katy felt her heart give a little skip that she didn't know how to interpret, but she recovered well:

"As long as you let me pay next time then I won't tell anyone that you're really called Honeysuckle."

Sacharissa took her hand and squeezed it.

"That's a deal girlfriend," she said, "see you soon."

Then she leant over and kissed Katy on the lips. It was fleeting but soft and Cowslip felt a jolt in her chest that she had never felt before.

William awoke with the smell of ammonia in his nose and the sight of Drumknott's face in his eyes; he didn't know which of them was the more astringent. He sat up and gingerly felt the lump on the back of his head while the rest of the room swam into focus, including the face of the Patrician.

"Good morning, Mr. de Worde," said Vetinari, "I apologise for the bump. Some of my staff has not yet fully embraced my new _customer friendly_ approach."

The scent of Vetinari feigning concern was sharper even than the smelling salts.

"Good morning, my lord," said William, "to what do what do I owe the honour of this gracious invitation?"

The bang on the head must have really scrambled his senses, he thought, if he was prepared to use sarcasm on the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork.

"Would you care for some tea? Or perhaps something stronger?"

It seemed that he was going to get away with it.

"Um…" was all William could manage.

"Splendid," said Vetinari, "sherry and biscuits, I think, Drumknott."

The valet then withdrew almost silently.

"How's the head?" the Patrician asked.

"Better, my lord," said William though, in truth, his head was all over the place.

"And how's business?"

"It burned down."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

Now, these days William wasn't always sure what counted as news and what didn't, but he was certain that this wasn't an example of it. After what seemed like only a few seconds Drumknott returned with the refreshments. Vetinari motioned him towards a small table where the valet poured them both a sherry. William gobbled down a biscuit –it was light and sugary and really rather nice- and then swallowed his sherry in one swig. Drumknott refilled his glass.

"Now to business," said Vetinari, interlocking his fingers and placing his thumbs under his chin, "I have asked you here to discuss a proposition."

William mentally ticked off the things that were wrong with that sentence: firstly, he hadn't been _asked_ and secondly, The Patrician didn't _discuss propositions_ he told you what to do. The only variable was the terms in which he old you. He could tell you in favourable terms or… you really didn't want to know what the unfavourable terms were.

"I am mostly ears, my lord."

"But not all?"

"No, that would be silly."

Vetinari smiled, indulgently. William felt hairs on the back of his neck stand up and made a note not to try and be flippant again.

"As you know, I am a great believer in the free press…"

The Patrician believed in the _free press_ in the same way that William believed in fairies at the bottom of his garden, only because they were there.

"…now, with the destruction of _The Times_ the number of newspapers has been reduced to…"

"One!" said William, with far more vehemence than he'd intended.

"Are you sure? I felt certain there were four."

"No, there are four titles, but they're all Bothermore News. Same rubbish, just aimed at people with different reading ages."

"I stand corrected," said Vetinari, "but all the more reason to have another, different, viewpoint."

In spite of his natural, understandable, suspicion, William had to confess to being intrigued.

"A rival newspaper, do you mean?"

"Quite so."

"Re-open _The Times_ , do you mean?"

"I think not."

"Oh," was all he could manage, though he felt as though he had dropped all the way from the crest.

"For two reasons," Vetinari continued, "first, _The Times_ had acquired a reputation for being somewhat staid…"

"And you'd like something more sensationalist?"

"Heavens no," said The Patrician, feigning shock, "I was simply suggesting that you might follow Lord Bothermore's example…"

"Same shit, different name?"

"Precisely, and perhaps just a tad more _dramatic_ , shall we say? Just a little re-branding exercise."

"I can live with that," said William.

"I'm so pleased."

"And the second reason?"

"You, yourself."

"Me?"

"Your name had become almost synonymous with _The Times_. It is reasonable to assume that the people who burned it down think they burned you down with it, and I fear that if they were to realise they are wrong they might take steps to rectify the situation. A temporary change of name perhaps?"

"As if William de Worde doesn't already sound like a pseudonym."

"I was merely suggesting that, for a short period, you might affect a _nom de plume_."

"What about William Penn?"

"Now you're being facetious."

And standing on a very wobbly stool with a short rope around my neck if I'm not careful, thought William.

"But I don't have a staff, or a printing press or…"

"As I understand it the staff at _The Times_ was not particularly large…" William would be the first to concede the point "…but I feel sure that Selene will know by the end of the day and will then inform Herr von Chriek and Miss Cripslock. As for a press, that has already been arranged."

"Really!?" William was astonished.

"You are familiar with the dwarf Mr Lars Larssonson?"

"Of course he comes from a family of great repute."

"But sadly of little imagination. In any case, you may recall that some years ago there was an attempt by the Bothermore press to besmirch the business ethics of the dwarf community…"

William could clearly remember a headline in _The Post_ : "Are We Being Sold Short?"

"…the dwarfs have not forgotten and Mr Larssonson specifically remembers _The Times_ was the only paper to stand up for dwarf integrity. He has built a press and offers it to you for free for as long as you may need it. What is your answer?"

"Of course," William said, without hesitation, "I'm honoured. I shall do all I can to reward his faith in me, and yours."

"I have professed no faith in you," Vetinari corrected, "I simply believe in fair play."

Luckily, William had already swallowed his sherry or he would have choked on it.

"What about editorial policy?" he wanted to know.

"Entirely in your hands."

"And distribution?"

"I have negotiated a contract with the Fools' Guild. The paper shall be sold for one penny per copy wherever street theatre or mime is performed."

"The Fools? Do you think that's wise?"

"The Beggars refused paid work on principle, while the Fools think the whole thing is a joke."

"Then it appears to be all settled," said William, refilling his glass. He noted that The Patrician had not touched his.

"Now all that remains is the title."

"And not _The Times_ ," William tried one last time.

"No," the Patrician affirmed, "I was thinking that as the mission-statement of the paper is to be _The Guardian_ of the public interest, and that it shall be completely _Independent_ we might call it…"

" _The Defender_!" said William, triumphantly.

"So be it," said Vetinari raising his glass, "to _The Defender_."

" _The Defender_!" said William.

They clinked glasses and William drained his. Vetinari even took a sip.

"Edited by good, old Bill Palabra," he went on.

"Mr de Worde, please."

Maybe, thought William, he should perhaps change his name to Death Wish.

 **Chapter 20**

Lance Constable Smite was a lover, not a fighter, or so his friend Patrick had told him. It wasn't that he couldn't fight, just that he didn't. Of course, his job meant that had sometimes to apply _necessary force_ , but that was in _the service of the public trust_. Commander Carrot was attempting to change the motto of the City Watch to " _In rem publicam fidem"_ from the less grand but far more accurate " _Fabricati diem, punc_ " which was the current motto. If attacked he could and did defend himself, sometimes so well that his attackers could end up injuring themselves. But he didn't go around punching people, or kicking them, or stamping on their faces, or gouging their eyes, or elbowing them in the nose, or head-butting them, or kneeing them in the goolies… unlike most coppers. And he certainly didn't attack them with the effortless and near lethal grace that Patrick did.

The reason was that Smite was an Omnian and Omnians didn't fight, at least not since the Reformation of Brutha, and Smite was a true follower of Brutha. Of course, back in the days of The Quisition Omnians had been famous for fighting, indeed they'd done little else as they took the Word of Om to the unbeliever at the point of a sword, or any other sharp object that came to hand. In those days an Omnian would smite you as soon as look at you, and he wouldn't smite you with wisdom, not if could lay hands on the jawbone of an ass or the thighbone of a bullock. But the Old Ways were a fading memory, recalled now only in the lyrics of pre-Reformation hymns. Today's Omism was all about "peace on Disc, goodwill to all men, dwarfs, trolls, pixies, gnomes, goblins, banshees, werewolves, vampires, orcs, elves and other sentient beings."

And then there was love. Smite loved his fellow man even when, as was often the case, his fellow man wasn't terribly enamoured of him. He loved his little sister, Abominate, and he loved his mum, even though he didn't know her name. In his day parents didn't really have names. They referred to each other as _mother_ and _father_ ; the children called them _mum_ and _dad_ and that was it. Naturally, she would have told him if he'd asked, but by the time he got round to it he was of an age where it would have been too awkward and embarrassing to ask. So, _Mum_ she remained.

He still loved Shame, even though it was clear that she no longer cared for him. Patrick had turned her head, he thought –though it hadn't been his fault- but she'd also met Vlad since then and now, somehow, Smite just wasn't enough for her anymore. Still, it didn't matter anyway because Smite was neck over knees in love himself, abjectly and irredeemably so, with the girl from the butcher's shop.

Like most Omnians, Smite didn't really eat meat. It wasn't that it was forbidden, anymore than drinking alcohol was, it was just that Brutha hadn't done it and most Omnians followed Brutha. He'd only gone into Bernie's that morning because he'd been working a nightshift with Sergeant von Humpeding and she simply _had_ to have her breakfast.

Her face was easily the most beautiful he had ever seen: young, innocent and delicate. Smite was only twenty-one and thought that this girl couldn't have been more than eighteen but she gave him moths in his midriff from the very beginning. When she smiled at him, that wide, bright, beaming smile, his heart was lost. When she looked at him with those huge, brown eyes –that always seemed on the verge of tears- she had his soul too.

"You don't happen to know her name, do you?" he asked Sally when they were outside.

"Who, Lucy? The girl in the butcher's?"

"Yes, _Lucy_ ," he agreed, "a sweet name for a sweet girl."

"Yyyyeeeesss," agreed Sally, doubtfully.

"You don't think I'm too old for her, do you?" he worried.

"No," said Sally, raising her eyebrows, "on that point I can reassure you."

"I suppose she already has a boyfriend though, doesn't she?"

"Again, no, there is no young man in her life at present," said Sally, concerned about where this was going."

"That's strange," said Smite.

"You have no idea."

At the end of the street they went their separate ways. Smite to The Duck to ask Patrick what he should do; Sally back to The Yard to consult with Harry, and Vlad too, if he was around.

"Smite's fallen for Lucy," she told Captain Mudd and then bit into her raw steak.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Harry.

There was a long pause while she chewed twenty-two times before swallowing.

"Sally!"

"Sorry," she said, finally, "it's bad manners to talk with one's mouth full."

"As the seamstress said to the…"

"Don't go there," she cautioned.

"Ok," he conceded, "what's all this nonsense, though?"

"It happened ten minutes ago, in Bernie's. It was love at first sight."

"There's a pun to made there, I'm sure, but I just can't think of it."

"I'm sure it'll come to you," Sally laughed.

"But it's madness, obviously."

"Vot iz this madness?" asked Vlad, coming into Harry's office. Without knocking, Harry noted.

"Smite's in love with Lucy," said Sally.

"Do not be rrrrridiculous," laughed Vlad.

"That's what I said," said Harry, "but without rolling my 'r' halfway down the street."

"I swear it's true, as Blind Io is my witness."

"Are you doing this on purpose?!" asked Harry, querulously.

"What," smiled Sally, innocently.

"Anyvay," said Vlad, "this is in-sane."

On that point they were all agreed.

"Did you tell him?" Harry wanted to know.

"What!? That that the sweet, little girl he's so smitten with is actually a two hundred year old vampire, famous all across the Disc for her sadistic cruelty and sexual depravity? You know, actually, I didn't. I thought it might spoil the moment."

"But ve cannot permit zis," said Vlad.

" _Ve_? What have 've' got to do with it?" Sally demanded to know. "It's between the two of them."

"Do you think Lucy noticed?" asked Harry.

"Of course not. Lucy can't imagine anyone looking at her and seeing anything other than a monster."

"Well, somebody has to tell him."

"And then what?"

"And then let nature take its course."

"Oh, come on!"

"Stranger things have happened."

"Really?! Name one."

"Well, there was the time that whale turned in a bowl of petunias."

"Ok," Sally conceded, "I'll give you that one. However…"

"I vill not tell him," said Vlad.

"Coward!" Sally accused.

"Zis iz most zertainly true," he conceded.

"You work with him," Harry said to Sally.

"You're his boss," she retorted.

"I'm also yours, so I'm ordering…"

"Choose your next words very carefully, Herr Dreck und Messing," Sally interrupted, "they may be your last."

"…some takeaway food from the Klatchian deli," he concluded, lamely. "I just thought it would sound better coming from…"

"A woman?!"

"Someone who knows him. I wish you'd stop interrupting me."

"Ok, sorry. Yes, you're right," she admitted, "anyway it may be a moot point as he's off to talk to his friend about it."

"Who's his friend?"

"The barman from The Duck and Run."

"Which one?"

"The really, really handsome one."

"Oh, Patrick. That's a strange friendship, isn't it?"

"No stranger than someone who looks like Patrick working behind a bar,"

"Yeees, that _is_ a bit suspicious, maybe we should look into it."

"Anyway," Sally concluded, "we'll agree to say nothing about it for the moment, and no bad blood between us."

"Will you stop it!?"

"What?" Sally laughed.

"Right," said Harry, suddenly serious, "we have more important things to do at the moment."

"True," the others agreed

"So let's go and do them." They both moved towards the door. "And hey," he added, "let's be careful out there."

The Duck and Run was fairly empty, but it was only nine o'clock on a weekday morning and only really hardened alcoholics needed a drink that badly, oh, and cops. Patrick was behind the bar with Shearer, the barmaid from Fourecks. Blonde, buxom and biceps, as Sacharissa would have said. The first two are good for any barmaid, but the third is essential. Apparently, back home, she played something called Messy Rules Football.

"What's so messy about the rules?" he'd once asked Bruise.

"Nothing anymore mate, we got rid of 'em all."

Shearer certainly did pack a wallop; one that even Kate would have been proud of.

"What'll it be, mate?" she called out to Smite as he came through the door.

"I'll have a cold one," he shouted back. It was somehow difficult to be quiet around people from Fourecks.

The Duck was one of a growing number of bars that now served Frosters. This was a drink that Fourecksian immigrants had brought with them. It was a bit like beer but was lighter and had a clear, golden colour. It would get you drunk, eventually, if you drank an awful lot of it, however, it's major selling point, though, was that it was always served cold, whatever the weather. Patrick didn't know how it was done as the Brewer's Guild –motto: _Unam ad viam-_ guarded the secret very carefully and insisted on installing the necessary apparatus itself. He wondered if it used the same method as the Quirmians used for their white wine. Bruise, however, claimed it was all done by sheer chill power.

"There you go, mate," said Shearer, placing his drink on the bar, "blow the froth off that."

In his customary way Smite downed it in one and slapped the glass back down.

"Strewth!" she exclaimed, "that's a thirst you've got there, mate. D'ya want another?"

"Keep 'em coming," said Smite.

"Unusual to see you in at this time, bud," said Patrick. He was trying not to let Bruise and Shearer lead him into calling everyone _mate_.

"Was it a tough night?"

"No, a new dawn. I'm in love."

"Oh, great," sighed Patrick. _Oh, not again!_ He thought.

Shearer put Smite's second beer down in front of him and he drained it the same way he had the first.

"More," he said, smacking his lips.

Shearer looked quizzically at Patrick, but he nodded that it was OK. It would take Smite about three days to get drunk on Frosters, however fast he drank them.

"So, who's the lucky girl this time?"

Smite fell in love with the same monotonous regularity as _The Post_ published anti-Omnian scare-stories, though not quite as frequently, and with far less success.

It wasn't as though he ever did anything about it. He would see a pretty face and fall for her, bum over brain. Then he would swoon and pine for a bit; until the next sweet smile, fluttered lash or dimpled cheek stole his heart away. Most of the girls never even noticed him and those that did just thought he was some weirdo looking at them in a funny way. As far as Patrick knew he'd never even spoken to them. His prospects were beyond hopeless.

"Do you know Bernie the Butcher?" asked Smite, taking just a mouthful of his third pint.

"Who doesn't?" This was a new turn, he thought.

"Well, it's the girl in there."

"What, Lucy?!" Patrick exclaimed.

"That's her," beamed Smite.

"Oh, for Offler's sake! Are you completely mad!?"

"Why, what's wrong!?" cried a stricken Smite.

"Oh, Great Om strike me down for my foolishness in befriending this worthless son of a… you do know she's a vampire, don't you?"

"No, she can't be, vampires are…"

"Stop!" Patrick commanded, holding up his hand, "whatever it was you were going to say, don't! Sgt. von Humpeding has ears everywhere."

"Oh, yes," said Smite, chastened, "good point."

"So, can we put this behind us? The sooner we can do that then the sooner we can move to the next hopeless case."

"No," said Smite, firmly, "I told you, I'm in love."

"The way you were with Betty from the baker's, Sharon from the shoe shop…"

"This is different."

"The way it was with Helen from the haberdasher's?"

"No, _really_ different!" insisted smite.

"Well, it does sound that way," Patrick had to admit, with a puzzled look on his face.

"So, what do I do next?"

"Aren't you listening to me? She's a vampire!"

"Don't vampires need love too?"

Patrick wasn't sure that they did, but if there was an exception it was probably Lucy. If anyone on the Disc needed to be loved, Lucy did.

"OK," he finally conceded, "then you'll need to ask her out on a date."

"Alright, how do I do that?"

"Ah, this is where it gets complicated," said Patrick. "The first thing you need to do is go up to her and say: would you like to go out on a date."

Smite waited for more detail, but none seemed to be forthcoming

"It's as easy as that!?"

"If it were difficult most of the races on the Disc would have died out long ago."

"Ok, but where do I take her?"

This was genuinely complicated. As far as Patrick knew Lucy didn't have any free time. She was too busy helping others or punishing herself. She didn't date, she didn't drink and she only ate food she didn't like. He'd thought of the Art Gallery, but then remembered that there was a large painting of the naked Donna Lucrezia in there, possibly more than one. The Museum was out as the Quirmian section contained a collection of instruments of torture that had been used by Lucy's family over the centuries. Possibly by Lucy herself. A walk in the park? If they did it at night they be attacked and though between them they could probably have fought off half of the Thieves Guild, neither of them would be prepared to do so. A walk during the day? Like many vampires Lucy had trained herself to be able to tolerate sunshine, but it wasn't pleasant for her. She might just be prepared to go for that one.

"Let me have a think about it," he concluded.

 **Chapter 21**

Patrick had a lot on his mind. For one thing, they'd had the cops round. There was nothing unusual about that, of course, the Duck was popular with cops, and other lowlifes and degenerates. And, on the surface, there was nothing to be concerned about. He'd seen Captain Mudd and Sergeant Ulyanov around often enough, in fact Harry had sometimes come into the pub before. Kate was behind the bar and they'd introduced themselves.

"Hello, my name is Mudd," Harry'd said, suggesting that this was official.

"Why, what have you done?" Kate had asked.

Harry had rolled his eyes in a way that suggested he wished he had a dollar for every time…

"And I am Prince Vlad," Ulyanov had oozed, giving Kate the kind of look that was frowned upon in polite society. It was not merely indelicate, it was positively lascivious. Now, Kate had pretty much seen it all, and probably done most of it too, so what had happened next had been astonishing. Not only had she blushed, but Patrick could have sworn he'd heard her giggle. She must have surprised even herself, because she'd visibly given herself a shake and then got down to business.

"Well, what can I get for you two gents on this beautiful morning? Would you like some…vine?" This latter question directed at Vlad.

"I do not drink…vine" said Vlad, playing to the gallery, "I vill haff instead some of your golden ambrosia."

"Ah, the Frosters, good choice on a hot day, and for you, Captain?" She'd obviously known who they both were from the start.

"The same," said Harry.

They'd chatted to Kate for a bit, drunk their drinks and left. Nothing to see here, move along. But Patrick had had the distinct impression that they'd been looking at him suspiciously. Of course the first thing a cop learned on his first day on the beat was how to look at everyone suspiciously, but if the Watch was taking an interest in him then others might be too, in which case it was five past time to move on. Except that he couldn't, because he loved Bliss and he'd never previously loved anyone in his life, not even his mum. Admittedly, she'd died in childbirth so there hadn't really been time for their relationship to mature, but this was a whole new feeling for him and he wasn't prepared to lose it, or her. Not that he had her at the moment, but things were looking up. He kept turning up at the hospital with some poor unfortunate that he'd "rescued" from a mugging, and each time he did she looked at him a little less unfondly. They were already back on speaking terms, she often smiled at him, and of course there had been the kiss.

The very next day she had made it clear that it was a mistake and that there would be no repeat of the unfortunate incident. But such a kiss was not so easily dismissed, nor forgotten. He had sworn to himself, and to Om, if he was listening, that when he had won her back that he would continue to save people from being mugged, only now he would do it before they actually got injured. And he was formulating a cunning plan.

It is a truth universally acknowledged throughout the multiverse that any policeman in possession of a half-decent personality must be in want of a nurse. Something to do with how much time they spent in each other's company during the dark watches of the night. Now, Lucy was only an auxiliary and spent most of her time cleaning and making beds. However, on occasion she was called upon to set bones, which she was very good at. Possibly due to the huge number that she'd broken down the years. Smite had only just started on the nightshift but he'd still had ample time to ask her out, without showing any indication of ever actually doing so.

To be fair, Lucy did keep smiling at him and every time she did he was like a small, long-eared herbivore frozen by something very bright. Of course, even Patrick thought Lucy's smile was a thing of wonder and was glad that these days it was only being used for good. Bliss had assured him that it had remarkable healing powers, especially on old men. His sneaky plan was to enlist Bliss's help in getting Lucy and Smite together and he'd thought of a picnic. It would seem innocent enough to Bliss –not like he was trying to get back together by getting her drunk or anything. Lucy might go for it because it would be outside in the sunshine so she wouldn't be able to enjoy it. Smite would like it because he would be in Lucy's company without the responsibility of actually having to do anything. It was a plan so cunning that it was like a fox that's been appointed Professor of Cunning at Unseen University. It was perfect, what could possibly go wrong. Well, pretty much everything, but he was going to give it a try anyway.

 **Chapter 22**

It was the same old thing: Moo and Margs were two little girls off playing in exciting and, no doubt, dangerous ways, while Tiffany and Agnes –in spite of their appearance- were two little girls being told what to do by their Nanny.

"Now, this isn't going to be easy, my chicks but it is going to be dangerous, and more than just a bit."

"But Nanny," said Tiffany, "can't you just tell us what's going on?"

"No, pet, I can't," said Nanny, "the reason being as I don't know myself, not for sure. Rumours is all get from my friends and places," this was Nanny's way of referring to the huge network that stretched out from this cottage to cover half the Disc, "that and the odd hints I gets from the Tall Man, plus me own feelings, what's never let me down before." This ought to have been enough for anyone. It was certainly enough for Agnes and Tiffany.

"What can you tell us, Nanny?" asked Agnes.

"Just what I said afore: something bad is happening and it's getting worse, getting worse every day, and it's going to keep getting worser until somebody puts a stop to it."

"And you think Moo can do that?" asked Tiffany.

"Not on her own, no, but she's the key; that's why you have to get her to the Big City, that's the heart of it all."

"If you say so, Nanny," they said in unison.

"Good girls," said Nanny. "Now, down to business. You're to leave tomorrow, that way, as I reckons it, you should get there not long after the Wee Free Men. They'll be looking out to take care of you and they're not the only ones. Mind you, there's other ones that'll be looking out for you that doesn't want to help."

"What do you mean?" asked Tiffany, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"I'm not the only one with tentacles is what I mean," said Nanny, ominously. "You're going in disguise, nobody is to know you're witches, you're just three girls off to visit family in the Big Onion."

Tiffany wasn't daft on this idea. A witch was what she was, from the tips of her toes to the split ends of her hair. She couldn't remember the last time anyone –apart from Moo, Margs and Agnes- had seen her without her hat, or dressed in anything other than black.

"I think the brooms might just give it away," she suggested.

"No brooms!" said Nanny. They both looked shocked. "Ok, you can fly as far as Rump but you have to leave them there. They'll find their own way home."

"Then what?" Agnes wanted to know.

"You takes the coach as far as Ditchwater, the tickets is in the top drawer of the dresser," she said, pointing. Tiffany went and fetched them. Nanny had clearly been planning this for some time. "And bring me that heavy bag too," she added."

"And after that?" Agnes prompted.

"And then you gets a boat all the way to the city."

"No tickets for that?" laughed Tiffany,

"No," said Nanny, with no mirth in her voice, "because they'll be looking for you by then and you'll have to make up your own minds what boat to take."

"Who are _they_ that'll be looking for us?" Tiffany asked, no longer flippant.

" _Them_!" hissed Nanny. " _Them_ could be anybody, don't trust nobody that's not on the list."

"What list?" wondered Agnes, aloud.

"This one," said Nanny, producing a piece of parchment from one of her dress's innumerable pockets and handing it to her.

"Lucky thirteen," said Agnes after counting and showing the list to Tiffany who, with a shake of her head, confirmed that she didn't recognise any of the names either.

"And be careful of anybody who's just vouched for, even by people on the list."

"And what happens when we get to the city?" Tiffany asked.

"You goes here," she said, producing another piece of parchment from a different pocket. She handed this to Agnes too.

"Agnes has been to the city and you haven't," she explained.

"Do you know where that is?" Tiffany asked Agnes.

"Sort of," Agnes nodded. "And then what?" she asked.

"That'll be up to you pet, there's only so much I can do and only so far I can see."

"And you can't come with us?" asked Tiffany.

"Nope, too old. And I won't be here when you gets back neither."

The young witches both looked rather glum at this.

"Oh, don't you worry about me, my chicks," laughed Nanny, "I've had a good life and a long un. I ain't afeared o' what's coming and Esme's looking forward to seeing me too."

"How do you know?" asked Tiffany, ever sceptical.

"Because the Dark Fella told me what she said."

"What was is it?" asked Agnes, agog.

"TELL THE OLD BAGGAGE TO GET A MOVE ON!"

Tiffany and Agnes both laughed out loud.

"Now," she continued, "get yourselves home and get ready. Be back here early tomorrow and I'll see you off."

"Ok, Nanny," they said together.

"But before you go, get the little ones in and we'll have a bite to eat."

"Great," said Agnes, "what're we having?"

"The kitchen's that way," said Nanny, pointing.

When they arrived at Nanny's cottage the next morning the sun hadn't been up for long. They were all three of them wearing their travelling clothes: stout shoes, plain dress and cape. In addition they each carried a small knapsack containing some spare clothes and a sponge-bag. Nanny greeted them at the door, with a very sleepy looking Margs, and ushered them inside. Agnes was pleasantly surprised to smell a fry-up frying up and exchanged puzzled looks with Tiffany.

"Nanny, are you making breakfast?" she asked. She had never seen Nanny cook and hadn't realised she knew how.

"That I am pet, sausages, bacon and eggs. And tomatoes for Tiffany here," she said with a shudder.

"We're honoured," said Tiffany, giggling.

"You watch it, young Aching," scolded Nanny. "The kettle's just boiled so you can make the tea and toast some rolls for your cheek."

"When they'd eaten and the girls had washed up they gathered round the table for the final briefing.

"Have you got any money?" asked Nanny.

"A little bit," Tiffany said.

"Me too," said Agnes.

"But not much, I'll warrant."

They both shook their heads.

"Quite right," said Nanny, "a witch doesn't have much use for money, not round these parts leastways."

She produced the small velvet bag from the previous evening and handed it to Tiffany. For its size it was surprisingly heavy and, when she looked inside Tiffany discovered why. There were pennies and florins, but there was also a large number of dollars. It was more money than she's ever seen in her life.

"Nanny, we can't take this!" she exclaimed.

"Of course you can, pet. I don't have any use for it anymore and Margs here doesn't even know what money is."

This was true, Margs had never owned so much as a penny in her whole life and nor had Moo.

"But it's a fortune," she protested, holding the open towards Agnes, whose eyes went wide.

"Is it," cackled Nanny, "well, I wouldn't have time to spend it then."

The two young witches looked suddenly serious but this only made Nanny laugh all the harder, so hard in fact that she began to choke and Agnes had to slap her on the back while Tiffany poured her a glass of _medicine_.

"Now don't you go hurrying me on my way," said Nanny when she'd recovered and drunk a little of her _apple juice_. "whatever old Esme has to say."

This made the other two laugh, almost in spite of themselves.

"Right," she said to Moo and Margs, "you two go and say your goodbyes and you two," this addressed to Agnes and Tiffany, "I want to talk to you two outside."

While Tiffany stored the heavy bag very carefully in her knapsack, Agnes helped Nanny up and the girls disappeared into the back room. Once they were out by the brooms Nanny suddenly turned serious.

"Right, listen," she said in a stony voice, "I won't be here when you get back, but if you come back without that little carrothead then I'll come back and haunt you, and so will Granny. Got it?"

"Got it," said Agnes.

"I shall come back with my shield or on it," said Tiffany.

"What's that mean?" demanded Nanny.

"I think it's Ephebeian," she replied, slightly flustered, "it means if I don't come back with her it's because I'm dead."

"Good girl," said Nanny, "that's the spirit. Too clever by half that one," she said as an aside to Agnes, "I've always maintained it."

Agnes didn't know what to say. Luckily at that point the girls emerged from the cottage and after a few more hugs they were up on their brooms and flying towards their destiny.

Rump was big enough to have back alleys, if only just, and they landed in one surreptitiously. They each leant their brooms against a fence and while Agnes and Moo were sorting themselves out Tiffany clapped her hands and all three brooms jumped into the air and shot off towards Lancre. Agnes almost felt jealous as she watched them go.

"Well," said Tiffany, smiling, "now we're on our own."

Agnes and Moo both smiled back. Of the three of them, only Moo's smile wasn't fake.

As they began to make their way towards what constituted the centre of town –as far as they'd been able to tell from the air- Agnes bought up a subject that had been bothering her.

"Tiff, you know, I think I should be in charge of the money pouch."  
"But Nanny entrusted it to me," said Tiffany, slightly offended.

"And you don't think that was a test?"

"Well, possibly," Tiffany conceded.

"You don't even know how much money we have, do you?"

"Of course I do: fourteen dollars, sixteen florins and twelvepence ha'penny," she said, "exactly."

"But you don't know how much that is."

"Seventeen florins equals one dollar and twenty three pennies equals one florin," she said, triumphantly.

"What can you buy for a dollar?"

"Um…" Tiffany sort of admitted. In truth she couldn't remember actually having seen a dollar before."

"Listen, Tiff," Agnes explained, as if to a child, which in this case Tiffany was, "I've been to the Big City and you haven't. A famous conman in Ankh-Morpork called Alf Dothemall once explained it to me very succinctly: absolutely everyone is out to steal your money."

"That's not true," said Tiffany, appalled, "and how did you become friends with conmen?"

"He was an opera-lover," said Agnes. "Ok, I'll grant that Moo isn't out to steal our money and nor is Nanny, especially as she gave it to us in the first place, but everyone who runs a business is out to rob you."

"Weeeeell," Tiffany was forced to concede, as this had largely been her experience.

"He was from Borogravia, where the currency is the Mark, and he put it like this: 'you can always make a Mark or two by treating everybody like a mark, kid.'" Apparently it's called _marksism_.

"Well, thank you for the lesson," sniffed Tiffany, "but I'm sure I can learn. And I'll keep change of the money-pouch for the moment, thank you very much."

"Suit yourself," said Agnes, still fairly sure she was right. When they reached the town rectangle, however, she knew she was right.

Lancre town was very small and Rump really wasn't that much bigger, but it was bigger enough: it lay on a major road and this was market day. Moo was understandably wide-eyed and open-mouthed but, Agnes noticed, so was Tiffany.

"Come along girls," she said, "that's quite enough excitement for now."

The Big Wahoonie really was going to come as a shock to these two hicks from the sticks.

They managed to reach the coach house without incident. Tiffany produced their tickets and they were shown to a corner table to wait. They were told that the coach might arrive in an hour but that it could easily be two.

"Well, we definitely have time to eat then," said Tiffany. The other two smiled at this and this time Agnes' smile definitely wasn't faked. The landlady bustled over, as only landladies of a certain age can.

"Well dearies, what can we gets you today?"

"What's the lunch offer today, ma'am?" asked Agnes before either of the others could say anything daft.

"Meat pie, chips 'n' peas," she replied.

"Yipee!" cried Moo.

"That'll be one of them, I think," laughed the landlady.

"Oh, I think three of those," said Agnes, laughing back.

"Drinks?"

"Small ale, small wine, large milk."

"Righto." The landlady turned away and called out to one of the serving wenches, "Ere, Maggie, take this."

Agnes turned to Tiffany and whispered:

"How much do you think this'll cost?"

"Erm…" was all Tiffany could manage as she estimated and calculated.

"Right," said the landlady, turning back to them, "that'll be sixpence ha'penny ladies."

Agnes paid for the feast out of her own little pouch. The landlady wrote a number on a little piece of paper and stuck it on the spike in the middle of their table.

"You enjoy yourselves now," she said, "the coach'll be a while yet."

When she'd gone Agnes turned to Tiffany.

"An honest landlady, eh? Wonders will never cease."

Tiffany gave her an apologetic smile, took the money-pouch from her knapsack and handed it over.

"I know when I'm beaten," she'd concluded.

 _Long ago things had been very different. He had been pre-eminent, first among all the gods on Dunmanifestin. Fors Forsa, the God of Sunlight, the Son of the Morning… None could rival Him in power or beauty and They all knew it. But of course this made Them jealous and They had begun to plot against Him in secret. He knew Blind Io was behind it but They were all in it together, it was so unfair. It wasn't as if He'd harmed any of Them, after all. All He'd hurt was Their pride. They couldn't bear the thought that He was better than all of Them, They were so petty._

 _In the end there had been a war, a terrible war. But the odds had been stacked against Him from the start: all of the other gods against Himself alone. It was so unfair. And so They had "triumphed", all of Them against One, and They had tried to destroy Him. They had almost succeeded, but He was not so easy to destroy. Yes, He had been diminished. More, He had been broken and scattered to the winds, but He had survived, if only just, and he had begun to build._

 _It had been slow at first –He had spent virtually all His power in battle- but his desire for revenge was strong. So he sought out grudges and petty resentments and hurt feelings and nurtured them and fed them and helped them grow. And as they had grown so had He. Oh, it wasn't like His old powers but it was something, and the more He cultivated them the stronger they became, until He eventually became powerful enough for hate._

 _Hate was strong meat and had to be handled carefully, especially hatred of "The Other", but it was hot and nourishing and He began to grow mighty upon it. He had fed upon the Omnians for centuries and on their hatred for outsiders and He had become mightier still and then that idiot Brutha had almost destroyed Him with his half-witted message of love and forgiveness._

 _No matter, He would be avenged upon the Omnians too, for there was a glut of hatred for them and He was feasting upon it. The banquet was here in Ankh- Morpork but there was sustenance to be had all over The Disc now. Wherever the Omnian diaspora went hate was sure to follow. And so He travelled and He tended the hate and he fed on it and He helped it spread. But He always came back to the Big Wahoonie because this was where the hate was strongest._

 _Naturally, He prided Himself that this was because He had nursed it so carefully over the years. Now that hatred was ready to explode and when it did He would gorge upon it and become greater than He had ever been. Then They would be sorry, everyone would be sorry, and He would have His revenge._

 **Chapter 23**

It was the sorriest picnic in the history of picnics. Bliss had persuaded Lucy to come along with her. After all their time together on the nightshift they had become friends, or as close to being friends as Lucy thought she could ever be with anyone. Partly it was their shared selflessness and dedication to helping others but it was also Bliss's attitude to Lucy's past. Lucy felt that she could never ask for anyone's friendship, because of all the terrible deeds she'd committed over the centuries, but Bliss said it didn't matter. Provided any sinner truly repented then Om would forgive them without question, Om having had a radical change of heart about forgiveness in recent years.

Lucy did want forgiveness, deep down; she just didn't think she deserved it. However, she'd agreed to take an afternoon off to attend the Temple of Om one Thursday. Bliss had lent her a dress, a veil and some lacy gloves. Like most Omnian girls, Bliss looked ravishing in her Thursday Best, but Lucy looked positively ravishable.

Across the central aisle young men and not so young men; decrepit grandfathers and mere boys fought with themselves. The better angels of their souls strove for higher things, but their throbbing hearts kept dragging them back and, indeed, down to other throbbing things. Bliss was annoyed by all the salacious attention, but Lucy scarcely noticed. In part this was because she'd been the object of such lascivious looks for virtually all of her long unlife, but mostly it was because of what she was hearing. Not the hymns, of course. She loved beautiful music but she'd been as surprised by the words as Patrick had. Especially as they reminded her a great deal of her previous way of doing things. No. What had held Lucy enthralled was what the preacher had been thundering-on about.

"Mercy shall be the whole of the law!" he yelled, "and compassion shall be the highest virtue! ALL shall be pardoned if they but show leniency…"

She was stunned. Was it possible that there might be clemency somewhere even for such a wretch as her? Was that a tiny flicker of light beyond the blackness through which she saw the world?

"Brutha said that he who has not forgiveness in his heart shall not know the Absolution of Om!" shouted the preacher. He was nearly apoplectic with gentleness and so, almost uniquely among the men present, had no eyes for Lucy.

"And he who knows not pity!" he shrieked, "shall not see the face of God!"

And Lucy whispered: "Amen".

It had been easy for Smite to persuade Bliss to come in the first place, even though Patrick would be they; they were old friends, after all. Also, her hostility towards Patrick was growing less with each unfortunate he brought to the hospital to be cared for. Of course, if she'd known the true circumstances in which he was _saving_ these people she'd never have spoken to him again, but he was genuinely helping them. Just not quite as quickly as he might have done. She didn't even ask him how he did it, though she must have known he was using more than strong language. It was enough for her that the victims had been in real peril, that Patrick had saved them and that they'd been incredibly grateful for his having done so.

And so here they were on a scorching Grune day in Hide Park. Patrick was dressed in a dazzlingly-white linen shirt and dark-blue linen trousers. Smite wore shorts and a shirt that was slightly too small, giving the overall impression of an oversized schoolboy. The girls were in light, flowery summer-dresses. Bliss's dress was flouncy and made her look sweet and innocent. Lucy's, by contrast, hugged her slender frame in a most provocative way, even though her dress was almost identical to Bliss's –because she'd borrowed it from her- and, as she was smaller than Bliss, it should have hung loosely on her. Bliss had coquettishly painted her toenails bright pink. Lucy had done nothing to hers , but they looked as if they'd been painted scarlet anyway, just as her lips always looked as if she's freshly applied wine-red lipstick (unless they'd chosen to match her nails) and gloss, even though she never did either.

Smite had brought a selection of fresh fruit that he'd bought in the market that very morning, under Patrick's watchful eye, to make sure he wasn't ripped off. Bliss brought a range of breads and sweet and savoury vegetarian nibbles, all of which she'd made by herself. Patrick had brought orangeberry-juice and Quirmian, chilled, sparkling water, plus wine, the grapes for which had been trodden by beautiful, naked virgins; at least according to the label. Needless to say, it came from Genua. Lucy had brought nothing. Never having been to a picnic before, she hadn't known that she was supposed to. Naturally, she felt terribly embarrassed at having been so rude so, from her point of view, the day had started well.

She had wanted to sit out in the blazing sunshine but the others had demurred, preferring a spot by a babbling brook –having never been near the Ankh it was as clear as glass- beneath the shade of a large oak-tree. She was a bit uneasy about not feeling uncomfortable, but she thought at least she could rely on the food, for she detested fruit and vegetables. However, the little taste detonation that went off in her mouth when she bit into one of Bliss's onion arokap was almost shocking. The lentil dumplings were just as bad and the potato, carrot and pea asomas, if anything, even worse. She was sure that vegetarian food wasn't supposed to taste like this. Patrick took it in his stride as he'd already been for dinner at Bliss's parents' house and for Smite it was just normal. She also tried the orangeberry juice –sweet and delicious- and the fizzy water –wonderfully cold- but avoided the wine. The idea of beautiful, naked virgins brought back too many bad memories.

Suddenly she found that she was enjoying herself and was almost giddy with the sensation. She had spent so many years courting misery that she'd forgotten what it was like to feel pleasure, and she'd never felt pleasure like this before. There was nothing sordid or corrupt about it. No one suffered because of it. It was the simple, innocent enjoyment of life itself. They were eating and drinking and talking about inconsequentialities, even laughing, when something shocking happened.

She'd been reaching for another summer-roll while listening to Patrick's funny account of his first date with Bliss, when Smite gently stroked the back of her hand. She reacted as a normal person would to having boiling water poured on it. She snatched it away, cradling it as if it had been burned and looked at him with a horrified face, eyes wider than dollar coins and a mouth like a howler-monkey. All the colour drained from Smite's face in response. The sudden movement had brought Patrick leaping to his feet as his Assassin's reflexes took over.

"What happened?!" he demanded.

"I…I…I…" stammered Smite, hopelessly.

"Nothing," said Lucy, feeling ashamed.

"I'm so sorry," Smite finally managed.

"No, I'm sorry," she replied, "I shouldn't have reacted that way."

"No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have presumed…"

"No, I'm sorry, it was ridiculous behaviour on my part…"

"Ok, you're both sorry," said Patrick.

"I'm sorry too," Bliss piped-up.

"What!?" he said, "what are YOU sorry for?"

"I'm sorry for the way I've been treating you," she replied.

"Oh, to hells with it," he decided, "I'm sorry for the lot of you."

 **Chapter 24**

William knocked at the door of the house on Treacle Mine Road that Lord Vetinari had told him about. It was opened by a dwarf with braids in his beard –which meant it was, most probably, _her_ beard- who led him down several flights of dark stairs to a sub-sub-sub basement. Waiting for him was a splendid, portly dwarf whose beard came all the way down to his knees. And they were definitely _his_ knees. William couldn't have said exactly what it was, but there was something about the eyes that said _male_ , or maybe it was the lips. Whatever it was he was pretty sure he could tell male and female dwarfs apart, most of the time.

"Lars Larssonson," said Portly, smiling and extending his hand.

"It's an honour to meet you Mr. Larssonson," said William, shaking his hand.

"Oh, _Lars_ , please. Actually, my friends call me _Doc_."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do they call you _Doc_?"

"No idea," laughed Lars, "it's not as if I'm a doctor or anything. Anyway, the honour is all mine, Mr. de Worde."

"Oh, _William_ , please, sir."

"Very well, William," said Doc, "welcome to your new home, come."

While Grumpy departed back up the stairs Doc led William into a large, well-lit room –a combination of candles and wurms. The lighting was largely for Williams benefit as dwarfs were used to, and actually preferred the dark.

"This is your workshop," said Doc.

In the middle of the room was a huge, beautiful, brand-new printing press, so clean that it looked as though it had never been used. To its right was a large bench containing several printing blocks and lots and lots and lots of little boxes containing metal letters. Under the bench were buckets of ink. To the left of the press were stacked bales of paper, enough for gods new how many editions. It was magnificent.

"It's magnificent!" said William

"It's the least I could do," said Doc "I was an avid reader and great admirer of _The Times._ I hope your new title will be equally good."

"I hope so too," agreed William.

"What will it be called, by the way?"

" _The Defender,_ " said William, proudly.

Doc looked sceptical for a moment, but then brightened:

"Because it shall be The Guardian of Truth, no doubt?"

"Precisely," said William.

"Excellent," said Doc, "this way."

He opened a door in the left-hand wall and motioned William to look inside:

"This is your office."

This was a small but still spacious room containing: a writing desk, three chairs, some filing cabinets and a camp bed. It was William's dream home.

"Everything a busy editor could possibly want," he gushed.

Behind him he heard the back door of the print room open and turned to see…well, he wasn't sure what he was seeing.

"Ah, this is your typesetter," said Doc, "Gudrun Gustaffsdottir."

He must have noticed the look of confusion on Williams face because he added:

"Gudrun is a Hubwards dwarf; they look different in there. Something to do with all that ice."

He'd said _different_ but by the tone of his voice he'd clearly meant _strange_ , because Gudrun looked like no dwarf William had ever seen. He'd once spent a couple of days at the Opera House watching the prelude to _Bloodaxe and Ironhammer_ Act 1: Scene 1. _Bloodaxe and Ironhammer_ was the greatest love story in all of Dwarf Lore. Dwarf Lore was even more sacred than Mining Law and any dwarf worth his beard would defend Mining Law with his life. He wasn't sure that he'd understood it completely –dwarfs could be very nuanced when the weren't lopping off heads or opening-up seams- but he was certain of one thing: either Bloodaxe or Ironhammer was female –though he wasn't sure which one- and they both had beards. He'd never seen a dwarf that didn't have a beard. Gudrun didn't have a beard, and that wasn't even the strangest thing about her. She looked, in almost every way William could think of, female.

For one thing there was her hair. There was nothing unusual about a dwarf having long hair –many of them did- but they always had it tightly braided, to keep it out of the way when they were swinging an axe on the battlefield or a pick down the mine. Also it was usually grey, though it could sometimes be black or even blond. Gudrun's was ginger – _auburn_ , he corrected himself- and loose, and curly. Next, she was wearing a dress. Not chainmail, not animal skin, not armour…a dress. And on her feet she wore little pumps rather than proper boots. Furthermore, the dress accentuated something else, as dresses are often designed to do, she had an hour-glass figure. Dwarfs went straight up and down but Gudrun went in and out, and in all the right places, at least as far as he was concerned, and she was also pretty. She was perhaps not as pretty as Sacharissa, though it was a close run thing, but she was definitely pretty. Undeniably, unquestionably, pretty. In addition she was a little taller than your average dwarf and a good deal slimmer. _More slender_ , he corrected himself. For all the world she looked like a human girl. And a pretty one, he added. The only dwarf he had ever seen that looked remotely like her was Commander Carrot of the City Watch, but Carrot had been adopted, perhaps the same was true of Gudrun.

"Good morning, sir" she said, holding out her hand. She had an un-dwarflike, high-pitched voice too, he noted. Without thinking he did what he would have done had any human woman extended her hand towards him in greeting. He took it, bowed and kissed it. Gudrun looked shocked and blushed profusely.

"You'll have to get used to humans, Gudrun, they're all nuts," laughed Doc.

William thought that indeed he might be slightly nuts because the next thing he did was bold, forward and cheeky. He said:

"You're very pretty."

Gudrun looked confused; Doc looked at William as if he were bonkers. Then she bobbed a curtsy. A curtsy, I ask you? She said:

"Thank you sir," and blushed again. She blushed so much that William ended up nicknaming her _Bashful._

"Apparently, she takes after her mother," said Doc, feeling rather confused himself at this point.

So, that's the Carrot Theory out of the window, thought William. Was it a mixed marriage? Was that even possible?

"Well," said Doc, "I'll leave you two to get acquainted." And with that he headed off up the stairs.

There was a short, awkward silence; then William said:

"So, Gudrun, do you have much experience in typesetting?"

"A bit, sir," she replied.

"You don't have to call me _sir_ ," he said.

"Sorry, sir"

He decided to let that one go.

"Are you accurate?"

"Always, sir." He admired her confidence. At least she was confident of something.

"And quick?"

"Fairly, sir."

"Well, let's see," he said, taking out his notebook and jotting down a few random sentences. "I want this in _Times Old Tsortean_ 12 point, single spaced."

He handed over the page he'd written on. She took it from him, went over to the bench and began to…finish. Her hands moved so quickly it was as though they weren't moving at all. William had never seen anything like it. Not even anything vaguely similar. She handed him the finished block.

"I think _fairly quick_ might be understating it just a smidgen," he said.

He was an old hand at reading upside-down and backwards but he didn't even bother checking it; he knew there'd be no mistakes.

"You're very good," he continued.

"Thank you, sir," she said, bobbing another curtsy and blushing again, "Oh, hello, Miss. Selene."

William span round and there she was. He knew that by this time he really should have got used to her mysterious appearances, but this one was more than usually unexpected.

"Hi, Scoop," he said.

"I told you not to call me that."

"Sorry, I forgot."

"No you didn't," she said, "good morning, Gudrun."

"You two know each other?" asked William, surprised.

"Oh, Gudrun and I go way back," said Selene.

"Really? You've never mentioned her."

"I am a woman of many secrets."

Well, thought William, there's certainly no arguing with that one.

"Do I take it that Otto will be along…"

"Good mornink," said Otto, emerging from the shadows that William hadn't even realised were there. They certainly weren't there anymore.

"Good morning, Herr von Chriek," said Gudrun, dropping another curtsy.

"You two know each other as well!?" asked William, incredulously.

"But ov course," said Otto, "Gudrun's skills are very vell known."

"I didn't know about them," said William.

"And upon whom do you think that reflects?" asked Selene, acidly; clearly still annoyed about having been called _Scoop_.

"Well," William continued, "it's good to see you both again. Now I suppose we just have to wait for…"

"I can find my own way, thank you very much!" came an irritated, high-pitched voice from the staircase. William looked around, though he knew exactly who it was. After a good deal of clattering and muttered curses, Sacharissa emerged at the foot of the stairs, slightly breathless. She ran at William, threw her arms around him and hugged him with all her might.

"Oh, William!" she cried, "I thought you were dead."

"So did I," said William, "and I may be soon if you don't let me breathe."

She released him.

"Hello, Selene; hello, Otto," she said, rather shamefacedly, "I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven," said Selene, answering for both of them.

"Great," said Sacharissa, immediately forgetting that there had been anything to apologise for in the first place. "Who's this?" she asked, pointing at Gudrun.

"This is Gudrun Gustaffsdottir," replied William, "our new typesetter."

"Hmmph," said Sacharissa, "she's too pretty to be a typesetter, and too clean. Typesetters are old dwarfs with beards and pipes." She really did love her stereotypes.

"Gudrun _is_ a dwarf," said William. And she's probably about ninety-five, he thought, which would be young for a dwarf.

"Really!?" said Sacharissa, obviously as amazed as William had been. "Whatever," she decided, "I have stories that need to be published."

"As do I," said Selene.

"Unt I haff photographs," Otto added.

"Ah, for that well need to wait for an engraver," said William.

"Oh, I can do it," said Gudrun.

"Really!?" said William and Sacharissa together. Gudrun blushed again.

"I told you Gudrun's skills were famous," said Selene.

"Then how come I've never heard of her?" Sacharissa wanted to know.

Selene merely raised her eyebrows, slightly. Perhaps only William noticed.

"Anyway," Sacharissa went on, "let's get to work, we've got a paper to get out. What's it going to be called, by the way?"

" _The Defender_ ," said William, proudly.

"That's a stupid name," said Sacharissa, "why are you calling it that?"

"Because it shall be The Guardian of Truth," he affirmed, puffing out his chest.

"Then why not just call it _The Guardian_?" she wanted to know.

"Erm…"

 **Chapter 275**

Sally had got off shift late, went straight to Bernie's and was now finishing off her steak on the way to Angua's.

"Pssssst!"

Came a weird sound from behind her. She turned quickly on her heel, but there was no one there. She shrugged.

"Pssssst!"

The sound came again from what had been in front of her but was now the new behind. She span on her heel, but there was still no one there. She began walking again.

"Pssssst!"

This time from an alleyway off to her left.

I should warn you," she began, testily, "that I have just come off the back of a rather stressful night-shift, and I'm not the most patient of people, even at the best of times."

"It's only me, sergeant," said a cold whisper from the shadows.

"Is that you, Phungus?" she asked, almost discerning an outline through the gloom.

"Yesss, sergeant," came the chilling reply.

Lance Constable Phungus was a bogeyman whom Sally had often spoken to but never actually seen, nor had anyone else as far as she was aware. Quite how he, or she, had ever been hired was something of a mystery. Sally stopped being irritated. Like all vampires she was in complete control of all her moods and emotions, almost all of the time. Phungus wasn't trying to be furtive, mysterious and eerie, it was simply what a bogeyman did. To ask them to do otherwise would be like telling a vampire to like garlic, or love his fellow man.

"Can I help you, lance corporal?" she asked in a friendly way. Like virtually everyone else, she rather liked Phungus, and he/she was a damned good cop.

From the far end of the alley came an icy breeze carrying the words:

"The captain would like to see you."

As the echo faded some pieces of paper blew down the alley and a terrified cat ran past her with its fur on end.

Would he indeed, she thought, well… Well, nothing. He was her boss and if he wanted to see her then he was going to see her. But she wasn't happy about it.

"I'm not happy about this," she said, closing the door of his office behind her.

He looked up from the papers on his desk. Anyone who wanted to lord it over you always had papers they were pretending to be busy with, to make you feel as though you were interrupting their pursuit of something far more important than you, even when they had requested –or in this case ordered- you to be there.

"Is there anything in my demeanour that would suggest to you that I care?"

Ah, it was going to be that sort of meeting then, was it? They hadn't really spoken much and in fact had barely seen each other since they discovered they had once been madly in love. That had been awkward enough given that they had to work together and that vampires never fell in love anyway. The fact that they were probably still madly in love made their working relationship a trifle fraught. Sally sensed that romance was not going to feature prominently in this particular encounter.

"No sir," she said, "sorry, sir."

"We're going for a walk."

"But I've just got off and…"

He didn't even have to use the flaming red eyes in the glare he gave her.

"Yes, sir," she concluded.

She was fairly certain that on this walk they wouldn't be holding hands like young lovers, gazing fondly into each other's eyes and chatting about having children and moving to the country. In this she was astutely correct.

"The first stop is The Duck," he said.

"Isn't it a bit early even for cops to…yes, sir," she concluded, demurely.

This obviously wasn't going to be conducted on an equal basis either.

"Good morning, captain," said Kate.

"Good morning, sergeant," said Patrick.

"G'day, mates," said Bruise and Shearer in unison.

The young people were clearing up the spilled beer and blood, and the broken glass and teeth, from what had clearly been a typical Tuesday night. There were already a few customers in for a hair of the wolf that had ripped their arm off, plus a few Officers of the Watch either coming off or going on shift. The career drunks were in the booths while the cops were at the bar, except when it was the other way round. A couple of the Watchmen looked startled to see their captain, but Harry wasn't interested in interfering with his men's legitimate pursuit of pain relief.

"And what can we get for you this lovely morning?" asked Kate breezily, "Or perhaps not," she added, quietly, looking at their faces.

"You can both give us an interview," said Harry, if you're not too busy."

"Well, actually…" Kate began.

"You first," said Harry, "and in private."

"…I do seem to have an opening in my diary just about now," she concluded.

Patrick watched Kate lead the two cops off towards the back office. For a moment he toyed with the idea of making a run for it, then he dropped the toy and kicked it into the gutter. He knew enough about both Harry and Sally to be sure that there would be Watchmen waiting for him outside and, unlike the ones in the bar, they wouldn't be the sort he could outfight or outrun. In this he was partially correct. Though the guard wasn't actually a Watchman he could both outfight and outrun Patrick. Mad Malky would do just about anything for a few drams and some slices of coo.

"Well, now, what can I do for the City Watch?" asked Kate when they were all three seated in the back office.

"You can start by telling us what's going on," said Harry.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, captain," said Kate, full of false innocence.

"Yes, you do," Harry insisted, "we mean with the Omnians."

"Your guess is as good as mine," she shrugged.

"No it isn't," said Harry, "if it was we wouldn't be here. The Patrician knows less about what's going on in this city than you do and he knows everything."

"That couldn't have made sense even in your head," laughed Kate.

"We know some of what's going on," said Sally, taking a different tack, "but not all, and we don't know why it's happening."

"Pour the beans," said Harry, the idea of spilling things didn't sit well with his vampire nature.

Kate looked thoughtful for a moment and then seemed to reach a decision.

"Well, what's happening is that Omnians are being attacked in the street more and more often. Not in The Shades, but in other parts of the city. They're being refused service in shops, while their own shops are getting their windows smashed and having graffiti daubed on their walls. Their children are being bullied in school and sometimes expelled for no reason… They're mostly safe if they stay in the Egitto, but even there bad things are starting to happen. As to why, well, partly it's the petty hatred being stirred up by rotten like rags like The Post…"

"But there's something else isn't there?" Sally interrupted.

"Yes," Kate admitted, "there's something else, but what it is I don't know; I really don't know."

"Ok, fair enough," Harry conceded, "but can we ask a favour of you?"

"You can ask," said Kate

"Would you be our eyes and ears? Let us know what's happening and, if anything's being organised, who the ringleaders are…that sort of thing?"

"What, be a grass, do you mean!?" she replied, mock offended.

"Yes," Harry had to admit.

"Well, normally…" Kate began.

"Normally, of course, I wouldn't ask," said Harry, "but on this occasion..."

"This is a bit different," she agreed. "Ok, I'll do it. It'll be good to be on the right side of the law for a change."

"You were never on the wrong side, Kate," said Harry, "always on the edge."

"Oh, do I get paid?" she asked.

"No."

"Didn't think so."

Patrick was the very picture of insouciance, if insouciance had been painted in delicate shades of pale blue and green. He wasn't exactly slouching in his chair but he could hardly have looked more relaxed if he'd been asleep.

"We know who you are," Harry began.

Not even the vaguest hint of the merest suggestion of a flicker crossed Patrick's face. Harry would have noticed, and even if he'd missed it, Sally wouldn't have done.

"No, you don't," was all he said.

"Ok," admitted Sally, "we don't know who you are, but we know what you are."

"And what am I, exactly?" asked Patrick, still as cool as Summer rain.

"You're an assassin," she said, simply.

Nothing in Patrick's demeanour betrayed anything. Nothing in the eyes, nothing in the face, nothing in the body language…but inside he was in emotional turmoil. He'd been rumbled.

"And what leads you to this, frankly ridiculous, conclusion?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Everything about you," said Sally, "your physique, the way you hold yourself, the way you move, they way you fight –you've been seen lots of times- but mostly it's the way you look. No one as handsome as you would be working in a bar when there are thousands of rich, silly ladies all over the city who'd scratch each other's eyes out just for the chance to treat you like a king. You have the face of a god, your…"

"Ok, sergeant, don't get carried away," said Harry.

"Sorry, sir," said Sally, slightly breathless.

"Suffice it to say, Patrick," Harry went on, "we can't find out exactly who you are, but we won't need to. As soon as we start making inquiries about a missing assassin the Guild will know who you are and…well, you know the rest."

They had him and they knew it; there was no point in denying it any longer.

"The face was a mistake," he sighed, "the work of a highly skilled but over-artistic Igor. Now, I assume some inordinately large bribe will be required." Being an assassin meant that he assumed everyone was as venal as he was. It was an assumption that had served him well thusfar.

He hadn't even considered trying to fight his way out. Gods knew he was good at what he did, but one vampire would be beyond even him, nevermind two. And money wasn't important to him anyway, though only because he had an awful lot of it.

"Sort of," said Harry.

"I'm intrigued," admitted Patrick, raising his eyebrows, "do go on."

"We'd like you to go under the sheets."

"Which means what?"

"It's a new thing that the Watch has come up with," Harry explained, "a Watchman, out of uniform, pretends to be a villain and tries to infiltrate criminal organizations –other than the Guilds, of course- so that we might be better able to apprehend wrongdoers."

"Sounds like a fine idea," said Patrick, "but I sense there's a problem."

"Villains can spot a copper from the other side of the Disc –even if it looks like Nobby Nobbs," said Harry, "they say they can smell us."

"Though in Nobby's case, so can I," added Sally, "but they won't be able to smell you."

"I do wash more than is generally considered healthy by most citizens of Ankh-Morpork," said Patrick. "So, I'd be a spy?"

"Precisely," agreed Harry.

"What fun," smiled Patrick, "but what would I be looking for?"

"Anything and everything to do with this Omnian business," Harry said, "but I should warn you, it could be very dangerous. We've already lost a couple of men and I don't want to lose any more. But I figure you can handle yourself."

"And also," Patrick observed, "should I come to a bad end, I'd be no great loss."

Harry just shrugged.

"Would I be allowed to punch people in the face, knee them in the guts, stamp on their fingers and kick them in the goolies?"

"Just like any other copper," Harry assured him.

"In that case, captain, we have ourselves a deal," said Patrick, offering his hand, which Harry shook.

"You haven't enquired about payment."

Patrick shrugged his shoulders: "Just happy to do my civic duty, sir."

Sally laughed out loud in spite of herself. As Mad Malky would say: "Aye, right!"

As they were leaving the bar she turned to Harry:

"Well," she said "with those two on our side we should find out what's going on pretty quickly."

"Oh, we'll find out alright," he agreed, "whether we'll be able to do anything about it is a different matter."

"Ah, yes," she said, frowning, "I hadn't thought of that. Where to now?"

"The Egitto, to listen to all the stuff that the Omnian's won't tell us."

Sally thought this was shaping up to be a long day."

 **Chapter 26**

There were five of them in the carriage: the three girls, plus two travelling salesmen. Tiffany couldn't help thinking of them, rather unkindly, as Fat and Rat. The lardy one with the double chins had started off by trying to flirt with Agnes, much to her embarrassment and discomfort, until Tiffany had given him Frown No. 3, after which he seemed to find the backs of his hands inordinately interesting.

The skinny one just couldn't seem to sit still: he blinked constantly, tugged at his ear, fidgeted, fiddled with his little moustache, bit his nails…it was so annoying that Tiffany thought she might have to slap him. And then suddenly, and suspiciously, he seemed to calm down, for no apparent reason. She raised her eyebrows at Moo, but the little girl just smiled back at her innocently.

Now both Roly-Poly and Ferrety were asleep, as was Agnes, snoring softy between Tiffany and Moo, who were staring out of the windows as the coach trundled through the empty countryside. Tiffany was on the verge of falling asleep herself when she spotted the two masked figures riding towards them; they were wearing capes and tricorn hats. She'd never seen a highwayman before, but she was fairly sure that this was what they were supposed to look like, especially as they were riding directly to intercept the coach, which was already slowing down.

The change of pace somehow had the effect of waking the sleepers.

"Why are we slowing down?" asked Ferrety, in a nervous voice.

"I don't know," liedTiffany.

"Are we there yet?" asked Roly-Poly.

"I don't think so," she said.

Still, everyone was fairly calm –though Agnes was gripping her hand far too tightly- until the guard on the back of the coach open his communications flap and said:

"Now everyone just stay calm."

This had the same effect that it has everywhere in the multiverse: everyone panicked. Actually, that was an exaggeration. Roly's mouth fell open and his eyes went wide. Agnes gripped Tiffany's hand even tighter and started panting. Moo was obviously too young to know how she should react to being told to calm down. Only Ferrety really, properly, panicked. He stood up, he sat down, he stood up again, span round, threw his hands in the air and shrieked:

"We're all going to die!"

He was a twitching, febrile bag of agitation that Tiffany had had just about enough of.

"If you don't sit down and shut up," she said, "I'm going to give you such a slap."

She'd used only Level 4 authority in her voice, reasoning that his fragile nerves probably wouldn't have been able to cope with any more, but it had the desired effect. He curled up in the corner and began feverishly biting his nails as if he had, indeed, been slapped. Tiffany wondered what he was that he could possibly have been able to sell and to whom. She discovered much later that he'd told Agnes it was _ladies' lingerie_ , which made Tiffany despair of her sex and also wonder what _gentlemen's lingerie_ might look like.

"Now," she said, "let's just see what happens."

By this time the coach had come to a complete halt and she heard a strong, authoritative, if slightly muffled, voice say:

"Stand and deliver. Everyone out of the coach, your money or your, aaaargh!"

The end of this sentence was so unexpected that it startled even Tiffany, and then she saw one of the highwaymen's horses bolting across the fields. The highwayman was still on its back, sort of, just, but he was as far from being in control as up was from down. She could hear him yelling "whoa!" at the top of his lungs but the horse simply wasn't listening. She couldn't see the other highwayman at all but as moo was laughing out loud as she looked out of the other window, she assumed that his horse was also heading for the hills at a good deal more than a canter. Tiffany looked sternly at Moo who beamed back at her, far less guilelessly this time.

"Good girl", she said and Moo giggled, as did Agnes.

The coach driver opened the door on Moo's side an enquired:

"Is everyone alright?"

The three girls burst out laughing, Roly managed to close his mouth and Ferrety passed out. The remainder of the journey went off without incident.

Ditchwater was a good deal larger than Rump, though not much more interesting, however it felt, at least to Tiffany, a great deal more threatening. There were far more small groups of suspicious-looking men than there really ought to be. And one group of suspicious-looking men was already three groups too many. As they made their way towards the riverfront Agnes noticed that a lot of the groups of suspicious-looking men were looking at them, suspiciously.

"You don't think they're looking for us, do you?" she asked Tiffany.

"Yes, why, don't you?"

"Yes, what should we do?"

"Find a boat as soon as possible," said Tiffany urgently.

Agnes wasn't convinced that this was such a great idea either because all the men on the boats looked rather suspicious as well, as did the boats themselves. Moo was, as usual, just looking at everything in wide-eyed fascination and didn't seem at all worried. Agnes thought this was strange as she must have sensed Tiffany and hers nervousness. But before they could even reach the quay they were stopped by a group of four nasty-looking men.

"Hello, ladies," said the eldest of them, a man of about fifty, "and where are you off to?"

"Oh, nowhere in particular," said Agnes, flustered.

"Is that so," said Old Nasty, chuckling and scratching his stubble. His three unpleasant companions smirked along with him.

"The thing is," said Younger Unpleasant, "we're on the lookout for two young women and a little girl, there's quite a reward, you see?" And all four men laughed.

Agnes felt sick, against four of them she couldn't see any way that they could…

"We can be on our way," said Tiffany, waving her hand, "we're not the girls you're looking for."

Agnes flashed a look at her as if she's taken leave of her senses. But she was in for a surprise.

"They can be on their way," said Old Nasty to the other men, "they're not the girls we're looking for."

The three of them nipped around the perplexed-looking men and walked quickly, but not too quickly, away. Agnes snatched a glance over her shoulder and saw Younger Unpleasant looking back at them. She felt frightened for a moment but then he shook his head, almost as if to clear it, and carried on walking with the other three.

"How did you do that!?" she demanded of Tiffany through clenched teeth.

"An old Granny mind-trick," laughed Tiffany, "I'll teach you it if you'd like, it could come in handy some day."

"No, it couldn't," Agnes was adamant, "if we get back to Lancre safely then I am never leaving it again, not for all the gold in Genua. I think you're right about getting on a boat, though."

The boat, however, turned out to be a bit of a problem too. All the boats heading downstream to Ankh-Morpork were carrying as much cargo as they possibly could without sinking, consequently, they had no room for passengers. Oh, a couple of the captains had suggested they might be willing to offload some of their cargo to make space, if offered sufficient _compensation_. But given that the _compensation_ was, on average, more than twice as much as all the money they had, Agnes had declined. She was currently conducting negotiations with a man called Ahab who had quoted her a price that was at least affordable, even if in no conceivable way reasonable. Also, she wasn't really that sure she wanted to share a boat with this man even if _he_ were prepared to pay _her_. She was by no stretch of the imagination a _woman of the world,_ but she'd lived in Ankh-Morpork for a little while and could spot a _wrong 'un_ from a good way off.

She was listening to his third and final offer when she noticed that Tiffany and Moo seemed to be talking to another man some distance farther on.

"And that's my ultimate, last and final offer" said Ahab.

"Perhaps another time," said Agnes, distractedly, as she walked away.

"Now that I think about it," said Ahab, "I do have an absolute, ultimate, last and final offer…"

The man up ahead was rather handsome, in a roguish sort of way: tall and broad-shouldered with a strong, bearded chin, dark, curly hair, well-muscled forearms and bright-blue eye. The patch made him look like a pirate, but then she'd assumed that all of these boat captains were. As she drew closer he stepped forward to greet her.

"Captain Richard Moby," he announced, sweeping off his hat and bowing low, "at your service, miss."

"Pleased to meet you, captain," said Agnes curtseying.

He flashed her a dazzling smile that showed off his gold tooth, then he lifted his eye-patch and winked at her with his non-missing eye, which was brown. She laughed out loud.

"He says it lends him a certain rakish quality," Tiffany explained.

"Indeed it does," Agnes agreed, "but do you really think we should be getting on a boat with any old rake?"

"Ahem, Captain Moby has offered us the use of his cabin for the journey at no charge, provided we buy him lunch."

To Agnes this sounded too good to be true, which meant it wasn't true.

"And where does he want us to take him for lunch?" she wanted to know.

"Oh, we'll have lunch on the boat," said Captain Moby, "just get a few things off the market."

"Hmm, I'm not sure…" Agnes began.

"Splendid," said the captain, picking up a basket and crooking his arm, "Tiffany and Moo will sort out the cabin while we do the shopping."

"Yes, you two go on," said Tiffany.

Agnes took the captain's arm uncertainly and with that she was swept away.

Agnes wasn't used to other women looking at her enviously but, in the company of Captain Moby that was what virtually every woman, and a few men, was doing. She was also pleasantly surprised and how cheap everything was; then she realised they were being given _special prices_ : "Cut rate as it's you, captain." She assumed that was why they only bought from female stall-holders.

They returned to the boat weighed down with: bread, ham, cheese, pickled fish, fruit, wine, milk…and had a lovely meal in the early evening sunshine before setting sail. And captain Moby did indeed raise his sail, so they weren't just floating down the river but, with a stiff breeze at their backs, were moving surprisingly swiftly. And they chatted as they went. Tiffany and been reluctant at first as she didn't want to betray the reason they were heading for Ankh-Morpork, though she wasn't completely sure she even knew. In any case, the captain didn't seem to be interested, he just asked what they thought of the sights they passed, what their likes and dislikes were, what their opinions were in general…and, surprisingly for a man, he actually listened to their answers.

And so they whiled away a pleasant evening until the sun began to set and the yawns began to make their appearances. Moo went forward to their cabin first Tiffany followed soon after. Agnes was tired too but decided to stay chatting for a bit longer as she wasn't often the focus of the attention of a handsome man. Actually, she had never been the object of attention of a handsome man before and wasn't sure she ever would be again.

As wasn't as if she wasn't pretty, in a girl-next-door sort of way, but she was, she had to admit, a little on the plump side and men, being shallow, seemed to prefer slender girls, like Tiffany. Handsome men, being generally twice as shallow as average, didn't even see her, despite sometimes having to go out of their way to look around her. Captain Moby, by contrast, had mentioned over dinner that when it came time for him to take a wife he wanted "a woman with a bit of meat on her bones". Agnes thought she had meat to spare.

Though she was enjoying his company a great deal and enjoying his attention even more, she was also starting to feel very tired.

"Are you going to sail all night?" she asked, trying to stop her eyelids drooping.

"Gods, no" he laughed, "even I need _some_ sleep. I'll sail on for a few more hours as long as I have a moon, then I'll find somewhere to tie her up for the night."

"Her?"

"Yes, all boats are female."

"I didn't know that, what's she called?"

" _The Pequod_."

"Does that mean something in Foreign?"

"I don't know," he admitted, "I didn't build her, so I didn't name her."

"Oh, well," yawned Agnes, "I must get to bed. Goodnight, captain."

"Oh, please call me Dick, all my friends do."

"Goodnight, Richard," she said, coquettishly.

"Good compromise," he laughed, "sleep well, Agnes."

The cabin was neat and tidy and she could smell the freshness of the sheets on the bed, she loved the feel of clean sheets. Captain Moby was a good and, she thought, trustworthy man –and being on the plump side for some reason made you a good judge of character- yet it never even crossed her mind to get undressed. It clearly hadn't occurred to the other two either as they were lying, fully-clothed, on top of the sheets. The only things they had taken off were their boots. Agnes took off hers and lay down with Moo between Tiffany and her. Within seconds she was asleep.

She came awake with a start to find both Tiffany and Moo sitting up and looking anxious.

"Wha's happ'ing?" she mumbled.

"I don't know," replied Tiffany, "but I don't think it's anything good."

There was the sound of boots on the deck above them, and it was the sound of far more than one man. Then they heard the sound of swords being drawn and the Captain shouting "Avast!" Then there were some yells, a lot of splashing, some muffled shouts and then…silence. The three of them clung to together fearfully and waited for, they didn't know what. After a couple of minutes there was a knock at the cabin door.

"It's only me, girls," said Captain Moby.

"Come in, captain," said Tiffany.

He opened the door and stuck his head round.

"What happened?" asked Agnes.

"Damned if I know," he replied, with a puzzled look on his face. "Four ruffians got on the boat like they meant to take her, then they drew their blades and jumped overboard. Weirdest thing I've ever seen. Still, the currents carried them away and we're all safe now. It's nearly daylight and I'm going to cast off soon. You can all go back to sleep."

And with that he closed the door. Tiffany and Agnes both looked at Moo, who grinned impishly.

"Good girl," they said in unison.

"Well, there's no way I'll be able to sleep now," said Tiffany.

"Nor I," agreed Agnes.

"Me neither," added Moo.

In five minutes they were all snoring.

 **Chapter 27**

Lucy had never had a boyfriend before. Oh, she'd had lovers, of course, lots of them; not too many to remember but only because she had a phenomenal memory. Yet she'd never had an actual boyfriend, one who wanted to hold her hand and talk about inconsequentialities as they walked through the park. They'd been to church together, they'd been to the art gallery –where she's carefully steered him away from the paintings of her without her drawers on- and now they'd been to his mum's for tea.

Lucy thought that there were lots of odd things about Omnians, not least their belief in Om. It wasn't that she doubted the existence of Om Himself, of course, as she knew for a fact that He was alive and well and living on Dunmanifestin, but He was, as far as she was aware, the only god who had ever changed His mind. There He'd been, happily having people burned alive for doubting even the least of His words and then, all of a sudden He'd said: actually, you know, I think I may have got that wrong. This was, to say the least, unusual for a god. Admittedly, His change of tack had largely been forced upon Him by the realisation that virtually none of his _believers_ actually believed in Him and the one who truly did, didn't believe in all the persecution, bigotry, torture and smiting. It had been a humbling experience. Actually, it had been humiliating, but He'd been prepared to learn from it, in a very un-godlike way. Thus, through his True Believer, Brutha, He –or rather _they_ \- had transformed Omism from a religion of intolerance and hatred into one of peace and love and singing. Admittedly, most of the songs were still about intolerance and hatred, and smiting, but you couldn't have everything.

What she found stranger still was that for almost every other religion it was taken as read in their _Good_ Book that their god was always right, it was, to her mind, what being a god was all about. Yet, it seemed that the Omnians had only really started believing in theirs when He'd admitted He'd been mistaken. Was that really anymore odd than a vampire having her first boyfriend at the age of 252? She wasn't sure. She wasn't sure of much these days, but she was sure it was weird not to have a name.

Sure, Sally's name was three pages long, –her own was four- her best friend was called Blister, her boyfriend was called Smite and his little sister was called Abominate. But his mum didn't have a name at all. When Smite had explained it to her it had seemed plausible –because she was beginning to understand him- but it was still daft. So, Mrs. Zarkom it would have to be. Actually, she had discovered during the evening, from Abominate –or Bom, as she preferred- that their mother's name was really Detest All Those Who Shall Not Forgive the Sinner, and decided to stick with her original plan.

Then there was the matter of what to take. She'd learned from her experience at the picnic that one was expected to _take_ one's host something on an _occasion._ Naturally, back in the day, guests used to bring her succulent virgins, but she doubted that that would be appropriate. On the other hand, she knew that Omnians loved flowers; perhaps that would be nice.

"For Om's sake _No_!" exclaimed Bliss when she suggested it, "Dead flowers?! You'd be better off giving her a dead cat." It seemed Omnians didn't think the best way to show your love for something was to kill it.

"Why not try wine?" Bliss suggested.

"I thought Omnians didn't drink alcohol," said Lucy.

"We're learning."

So, wine it was. At least this was something she knew about, and she could now afford to buy things. Since she'd let Bliss take charge of her money she actually had some to spend, rather than having it all stolen. So, on the way to the Omnian Quarter they had stopped off at a Quirmian deli. She had bought a bottle of what had once been her favourite Fizzi, _Vedova Clicotti._ To Smite it had seemed like an eye-watering amount of money to spend on anything, let alone one bottle of wine, however fizzy, and said it was far too generous. But hells, what else was she going to spend money on? Also, it came with a _Leonardo Sleeve_ that would keep it chilled for up to three hours.

And so to the Egitto. The first thing that struck Lucy was not the profusion of beautiful flowers –unlike most people- but the orderliness. She was a vampire, after all, so the beautifully clean, wonderfully tidy streets made her feel warm all over. Of course, she could have done without all the children playing in them, but even they looked neat and tidy. Gods, even the flowers, almost designed to be untidy, were well-ordered and well cared for, much like the children.

When they reached the little Zarkom house Smite knocked at the door. Was this normal? She wondered. In the old days in Quirm she would sometimes have a servant use the huge wolf's head knocker on the gates of her father's castle, but only on dark and stormy nights and when she had someone with her whom she was trying to scare the dying nightlights out of. She didn't think this was the same sort of thing.

The door was opened by a typically beautiful young woman. Any human would have assumed she was Smite's slightly older sister, but Lucy's eyes were sharper than that.

"Good evening, Mrs. Zarkom," she began.

"Oh, you must be Lucy," said Detest, "so lovely to meet you, please come in."

Mrs. Zarkom led the way into a small parlour where an unsurprisingly beautiful little girl was waiting for them.

"This is my daughter, Abominate," she said and the girl frowned, "but she prefers to be called Bom."

"Good evening, Bom," said Lucy."

The girl's smile could have lit up a far larger room.

"Gosh, you're pretty," she blurted out.

"Now, Bom," scolded her mother, "what have I told you about telling lies?"

Oh, dear, thought Lucy, that's rather harsh, and a very unpromising marker for the evening.

"Sorry, mum," said Bom, "gosh, you're beautiful," she corrected.

"That's better," said her mother.

Perhaps the evening wouldn't be too difficult after all.

Lucy had handed over her gift to Mrs. Zarkom, who was terribly grateful, no doubt pleased that it wasn't a dead cat. They'd each had a glass, including Bom, and agreed it was lovely. And so to the food. It was lucky for Lucy that she'd sampled some of Bliss's nibbles at the picnic because if this had been her first introduction to Omnian food then her taste-buds would have shutdown and gone off for a walking holiday near the Hub to get their heads straight.

Again it was supposedly, and scarcely believably, all vegetarian. In Genua they said that the first bite was with the eye and by the time she had had a proper look at the first course she was tempted to say she was full-up. There was a lot of red and green, but also yellow and orange, and blue and purple…there was even black and white. All the names were new to her: _asomas, arokap, akrat laad_ …luckily she would easily remember them all, because she wanted to eat them all again. In fact she wanted to eat them all again as soon as she finished them and would have asked for more if she hadn't thought that it would have been rude. Anyway, there was no point in pining after _adnasap_ when there was _amrok_ to be eaten. All the food looked wonderful but the tastes were beyond description. It was also the happiest dinner she could ever remember having. Everyone seemed to be laughing all the time, though Lucy thought this might have something to do with the herbal tea they were drinking. Her acute senses discerned that it was a great deal more potent than the Fizzi she'd brought. Little wonder that the Omnians weren't particularly interested in alcohol if this was what they had with their toast in the morning.

While Mrs. Zarkom and Bom were doing the washing-up she mentioned this to Smite.

"They seem awfully jolly," she observed.

"Well, they're laughing at you," he explained, with a giggle.

"WHAT!" yelled Lucy, almost silently. She was appalled.

"Oh, not in a bad way," he said, still giggling, "it's just that with every mouthful you eat you make a lot of little _mmmmah mmmmoh_ noises. Hadn't you noticed?"

Lucy was forced to admit that she hadn't. She had, first time in as long as she could remember, done something without being aware that she was doing it. Vampires didn't really do that.

"No, I hadn't" she giggled. She giggled! This she was most definitely aware of. Since the beginning of time at no point, in no place and under no circumstances had no vampire ever giggled. It wasn't just unheard of, it was impossible. Well, obviously it wasn't impossible as it had just happened. QED (Quite Evidently Doable). A giggling vampire?! It was so ridiculous that it made her laugh out loud.

 **Chapter 28**

It was moving time again. Lord Bothermore had decided that he needed to slaughter some birds and deer and rabbits… and to watch his dogs tear some foxes to pieces. It seemed that all of these activities fell under the general term _sport_. Lord Bothermore did enjoy his _sport_ , so much so that he was planning to launch a new publication dedicated to it. Katy had overheard him discussing it with its prospective editor, Viscount Nigel Jeremy Alderley-Edge. Its working title was _Moor and River_ and its remit was to cover all _sports_. This meant that in edition to the _sports_ already mentioned, there would also be fishing. Lord Bothermore did not fish as he simply didn't have the patience. However he knew that other members of _polite society_ did and he was prepared to curry favour with them. It was certainly the only thing that was ever going to be curried in his household.

What this meant was that Katy would be leaving the city for a while and moving into the country, though not a long way into the country. Lord Bothermore liked to _get away from it all,_ but not too far away from it all as he never knew when he might need to get back to it all in a really big hurry. Leaving at dawn on Saturday, and spending one night at an inn on the way, they should arrive late on Octeday evening, allowing Lord Bothermore to join "The Hunt" on Sunday.

For Katy there were both positives and negatives to time spent at the Hall rather than at Bothermore Towers. Actually, there was one advantage, Rupert wouldn't be there, and everything else was a negative. Rupert didn't like to be away from his _friends_ or from the amusements that they all liked to inflict on servant girls.

He'd gone off _sport_ since his father had forbidden him to use a gonne as his preferred method for slaughter. Apparently, it wasn't very sporting. The supposed justification for _sport_ was that the dead animals were cooked and eaten. When an animal had been hit by a gonne there wasn't a piece of it left big enough to cover a small water-biscuit.

So, she was spared his unwelcome and unpleasant attentions for a while, but there was more than enough other unpleasantness around to compensate for this little bit of relief. For one thing, she was away from her mum and her sisters, and Sacharissa, of course. For another, there was the tedium. She wasn't invited to the _sport,_ and wouldn't have gone if she'd had been. She'd long since explored all the vaguely interesting parts of the Hall and walked all the walks around it, twice, and they had none of them been terribly interesting the first time. However, the biggest negative was the staff, which was mostly terrified.

Lord Bothermore and his chums liked to beat the servants and generally abuse them as a matter of course, but what really frightened the maids and the footmen was someone who was supposed to be one of their own. In theory "below stairs" was under the authority of the cook and the butler. However, Mr. Bridges and Mrs. Hudson were getting on a bit and were rather set in the ways of a half-a-century before, though they were decent enough people, at least to Katy's mind. Which was more than she could say for the housekeeper.

Frau Strohdachdeckerin was from Überwald and ruled the Hall with a will of iron and a rod of birch. There wasn't much positive that you could say about Lord Bothermore but at least he loved his dogs. Oh, and his Sewer Plumes. Frau Strohdachdeckerin didn't appear to like anything or anyone.

She was fairly tall, for a woman, and her gaunt features made her seem taller still. Her hair was silver, probably dyed, and looked as if it were actually made out of metal, but it was her horrible eyes that really gave you the shivers.

Katy remembered the first time she had visited the Hall. The housekeeper had loomed out of the shadows with her red, raw, painful stare and had almost given her a heart attack. She wasn't as terrified of her as the rest of the staff because, in the petty-hierarchy of servitude, she was at least her equal, if not her superior. She was still scared of her though. Especially as she couldn't hear her creeping up behind her.

The servants at Bothermore Hall were required to wear bells. The footmen, a ring of them around their upper arms; the maids a ring around their ankles. That way their superiors could always hear them approaching. There were three exceptions: Mrs. Hudson –though the cook never left the kitchen- Mr. Bridges and Frau Strohdachdeckerin. The latter two so that they could creep up on their underlings and catch them doing _things_. Even Katy had to wear bells on her ankle, lest she inadvertently come across Lord Bothermore or one of his cronies surreptitiously doing _things._ This was part of the reason she and the housekeeper weren't completely sure of where they stood in relation to each other. Lord Bothermore certainly seemed to treat Katy with more respect, but it was very much a relative thing. Still, all of that was more than a day away; for the moment Katy planned to simply enjoy the journey.

It wasn't a large entourage, just two carriages and four outriders. Inside the first carriage was Lord Bothermore, his valet and two bodyguards. The second carriage held Katy and the maid, Rose. On top of each carriage, in addition to the coachman, rode another two bodyguards. The four horsemen –two at the back and two at the front- were also bodyguards. Lord Bothermore certainly felt that his body needed a lot of guarding.

As Sacharissa said: "If you spend your life stirring-up hatred, then some people might hate you for it". Lord Bothermore was very ignorant. He even prided himself on the depths of his ignorance. But he wasn't stupid.

It had taken a couple of ugly hours to clear the makeshift settlements and shanty-towns that surrounded the walls of Ankh-Morpork but then they were in the countryside proper. She much preferred the hubward uplands to the Sto Plains. Some people liked their wide, open spaces and Katy could see the attraction, but it was all rather samey and grew dull fairly quickly. She'd much rather have what they were travelling through now: hills and woods, streams and little waterfalls, small towns, smaller villages and tiny farms.

She and Rose had been chatting all morning but now they were content to just gaze out of their windows and watch the world amble past. In theory, Rose was Katy's maid, Katy being on the first –or possibly second- rung of the ladder, rather than actually on the ground. Rose knew her place and always called Katy "Miss". However, Katy knew her own place and it wasn't as anyone's superior. It had been awkward to begin with, but eventually they become friends. Not friends like with Susan and certainly not "friends" like with Sacharissa, but friends nonetheless. They even slept in the same bed.

Katy tried not to sleep at Bothermore Towers any more than she had to but whenever she did Rose slept with her, for two reasons, one selfish and one altruistic. The selfish reason was that she loved having someone to talk to in bed. They never talked about anything of consequence, just chatted away until one or other of them drifted off. It was very relaxing. The unselfish reason was that, as Katy was allowed to lock her door, she could keep Rose safe from Rupert, at least for a little while.

Rupert wouldn't be at Bothermore Hall but there was usually some horrible guest around to make the servants lives miserable. Katy supposed that it was unsurprising that Lord Bothermore's "friends" were as vile as he was himself; no decent person would be prepared to be seen with him. If she didn't have to.

The night spent at the inn had been uneventful, unlike the morning after. Katy and Rose were awoken by someone banging on their door. They opened it, still in their nighties, to be confronted by a breathless and flustered security guard.

"Dressed and downstairs, now," was all he said and was gone.

They dressed as quickly possible and hurried downstairs to find the whole place in uproar. Before Katy could even ask what was going on she and Rose were bundled into the coach, without any breakfast, and were soon tumbling around as the horses were whipped into a gallop by the coachman.

After a few minutes, when the pace had settled down a little, they managed to take their seats and get their breaths back.

"We're going the wrong way," said Rose, looking out of the window.

"Looks like we're not going to Bothermore Hall after all," said Katy.

They smiled at each other: "Great!" they said in unison.

It was only later that Katy discovered the reason for their sudden about-turn: the first edition of _The Guardian_ had hit the streets, and the manure had hit the windmill.

She was sitting in Krishnom's restaurant in the Egitto waiting for her contact. When she found out that Sacharissa had booked the table under the name Cowslip it had made her smile. She was less happy when she discovered that the restaurant was vegetarian, and unhappier still when they told her they didn't serve wine. Katy didn't approve of vegetarianism, still less of teetotalism; they were for weirdoes and religious maniacs, but certainly not for her. However, she cheered-up a good deal when the brought her some spicy arokaps with a creamy dip. And after a couple of glasses of herbal tea she was as lappy as Harry. Thus Sacharissa found her, smiling beneficently.

"Hello, girlfriend," she said, "you look pleased with yourself."

Katy always got a funny little feeling in her tummy when she called her that.

"Just enjoying the food, it's delicious, dry tum."

"Is that that what you've got," laughed Sacharissa, "you haven't been at the tea by any chance, have you?"

"Slovely," replied Katy.

"So I've been told, but I think we should order some water as well."

"Whatever you say, sweetie."

They were both equally surprised that she'd said this, and both looked away.

After asomas and some more arokap, Sacharissa ordered for them both: anuhb for Katy and ooladniv for herself with irawhsep bread to share. Sacharissa had a bit of Katy's anuhb because "it's absolutely gorgeous, you really, really have to try it" and Katy tried a forkful of ooladniv, even though Sacharissa had advised strongly against it. It did, admittedly, clear her head, but only by almost burning her tongue off.

"How can you eat that!?" she gasped.

"It's an acquired taste."

"You can't possibly taste anything that hot! It's like trying to eat lava."1

"It does take practice," admitted Sacharissa, "and a strong constitution".

She ordered Katy a creamy drink called issal which, almost miraculously, took away the burning sensation. And then they got down to business.

"So, how are things at Bothermore Towers?" asked Sacharissa.

"Close to boiling over," said Katy, "almost as hot as ooladniv. All the newspaper people are angry with each other, Kelvin Bridge is furious with the lot of them and Lord Bothermore is close to apoplectic. Apparently, freedom of the press means that Lord Bothermore should be free to say whatever he wants, and everybody should be free to buy his newspapers and…that's it. None of them saw it coming, no one knows where it is or who is financing it, and they have no idea where it gets its information from."

"That's down to you, girlfriend, not everything, but a lot."

Again the flip of her stomach.

"I do my best," said Katy, blushing, "the details are in here."

She slipped an envelope from her bag and passed it under the table to Sacharissa, who quickly stashed it in hers.

"I really think we need to start paying you, in more than lunches."

"No, no, the lunches are payment enough," said Katy "that, and your company," she added, daringly.

"I'm flattered," said Sacharissa, flattered.

"Anyway, if I just get a lunch then it feels like I'm doing my civic duty; if I were being paid it would feel like corruption."

"Intelligent, resourceful AND principled!? I think I love you".

"I love you too," Katy blurted out.

They looked into each other's eyes for a few seconds and then both looked down.

"I think I should get the bill," said Sacharissa.

For the next few minutes they talked about inconsequentialities and Sacharissa asked after Katy's mum and sisters. When she got up to go she took Katy's hand and squeezed it.

"We'll talk about what you said next time," she said, then she leant over and kissed her briefly on the lips, "goodbye, girlfriend."

When Katy left the restaurant a few minutes later she thought she might have a go at trying to fly. And it was nothing to do with the tea.

 **Chapter 29**

Sally was playing with little Ironhammer while Angua caught up on her sleep upstairs and Carrot taught Wolfie how to use a pick in the back garden. It had already been a long day and it was only eight o'clock in the morning. It had begun at four o'clock the previous afternoon with her visit to the Egitto. She'd been through the Omnian Quarter before, lots of times, but she had never tarried overlong. She didn't know anyone there and she certainly wasn't going to eat in any of the restaurants. Vegetarian?! Yuck, yuck, yuck nasties. But this time was different, it was duty.

Lucy had told her that she'd asked Mrs. Zarkom about The Unpleasantness/The Trouble but had got no answer, and Patrick had reported the same about the Shivarananoms. She was hoping that her being on official business might prove more successful. On her way she thought she's check on the guards.

The Watch was always overstretched, even at the best of times, but Commander Carrot had decided he could spare a few –four- officers at all times to patrol the Egitto and they were always his best, or at least his scariest. On the Hubward side stood Lance Constable Marble, a troll of such immense size that he made Sergeant Detritus look like a little boy.

"Good afternoon, Lance Constable," she said.

Lance Constable Marble thought about this for a little while.

"Yes," he concluded. Marble was never a great one for conversation, but the summer heat really wasn't helping.

"Anything to report?"

There was a long pause.

"No, ma'am," he decided.

She thought about telling him that he didn't have to call her "ma'am" and that, in any case, if he wanted to address her formally he should call her "sergeant". In the end she decided that she didn't want to overtax him and, anyway, she really didn't have the time.

"Well, keep up the good work," she said and headed off.

"Yes," came the rumble from behind her a few seconds later.

On the Rimward side was Corporal Axegrinder, a dwarf whose temper was famously even shorter than his stature.

"Anything to report, corporal?"

"There'd better not be, sergeant" he growled.

"Please try not to frighten the natives," she urged.

"I am here to serve and protect," he said through clenched teeth.

"Glad to hear it," she said, "carry on."

"Just let them try it," he snarled.

Sally wondered if he ever beat himself up just to stay in shape.

A few streets along she spotted Lance Constable Architrave. She thought a gargoyle looked a little out of place, perched on top of a tenement building, but no one else seemed to notice. She decided to climb up rather than fly, as she wanted to keep her clothes on. It always annoyed her that Vlad, for example, could turn into a lot of bats, fly halfway across the city and reintegrate fully clad, whereas when she did it her clothes were always back where she'd started.

"Anything to report, Lance Constable?"

"Nushing sho far, Shargeant," he replied, "egryshing ish shtable."

"Glad to hear it," she said, "well, keep your eyes peeled."

"I gant peel my eyesh, Shargeant, lay only hag one layer. Not like yoursh."

Gods but gargoyles could be so literal.

"Well, just keep them open then."

"I gant shut dem as I gon't hag any eyelashesh."

But she was already back on the street. And then there was Sergeant Kubwa.

Sergeant Kubwa wasn't a giant, at least not technically. Giants lived in the frozen lands near the Hub. They were greenish-grey, fat, slow-moving, slow-witted, generally ugly and even less able to cope with the cold than trolls were. Sergeant Kubwa, by contrast, was all muscle and mahogany and came from Howondaland, and it didn't get much hotter than that…or him. Oops, did she just think that?

"Afternoon, Kubwa," she said. Being of equal rank they could be informal.

"Good afternoon, beautiful lady," he said –very informally- in his deep, resonant voice and beamed his wide, sparkling smile at her. Her heart jumped and her tummy fluttered. Or at least it would have done had she not been madly in love with Harry, of course. Sally reckoned he must have been six cubits high if he was a span and almost as broad across the shoulder as she was tall. She thought that three of her could have perched on one of his shoulders, even without turning into a lot of bats, and could have danced in the palm of his hand in her bare feet, wearing just a…stop it!

"Anything happening?"

"No, but I've noticed _things_ tend not to happen when I'm around. I can't think why that is."

"Nor can I," laughed Sally, "but I'm sure that should any _things_ happen you shall be able to cope with them."

"I'm sure I shall," he laughed back.

This was not a boast but a simple statement of fact.

"Goodbye, Big Man," she said, "have a nice evening."

"You too, little girl," he almost sang in his deep bass.

It took her a couple of seconds to skip out of his shadow.

Mr. and Mrs. Shivarananom looked a little frightened when Sally introduced herself at their door.

"Have we done something wrong?" asked Mr. Shivarananom.

"Oh, no no," she tried to reassure them, "The Watch is just trying to do its job better by finding out what citizens think about what we're doing and how we could improve it." It didn't sound very convincing, even to her.

"Oh, in that case you'd better come in."

It was true that Omnians were very bad a spotting lies, probably as they so seldom told them themselves.

"Would you like some tea?" asked Mrs. Shivarananom.

"Yes, please," said Sally, thinking, foolishly, that the less formal things were the better. They'd gone around the houses, tenements, backstreets and alleyways for a little while as they sipped their tea. She'd said what a pretty house they had and how neat and tidy she thought it was – this being something she really appreciated- and this had seemed to please them both equally. It was rumoured that Ominian men, at least those in exile, did almost half the housework. Just something else to make them appear alien to their fellow citizens. She'd also mentioned what a lovely area she thought they lived in, what with the streets being so clean and all. Again they'd both beamed at her, as though they were personally responsible which, it turned out, they were. They belonged to something called Neighbourhood Wash that made sure everything in the streets around them was spicker than a span. By this time she had begun to notice that the tea was beginning to have a rather odd affect on her, so she wasn't immediately sure if she'd actually noticed what she thought she'd noticed. Her vampy sense might have been dulled by drugs, after all. What she thought she'd noticed was a certain stiffening of manner when she'd asked how the children were getting on at school.

Now, according to her friend Susan, who was a teacher, Omnian children stored knowledge as though they were packing for a long camping holiday. Or, as Susan herself had put it: "as though they might have to leave in a hurry and only be allowed to take what was inside their heads". She doubted that Harangue was failing at mathematics or that Mortify and Disgrace weren't doing well at counting. She'd heard that Omnian children were being bullied at school and this seemed to support that rumour. But it was when she asked if there had been any problems with public order that it became clear.

"Oh, no trouble," said Mr. Shivarananom, emphatically.

"Though there was that bit of unpleasantness," said Mrs. Shivarananom, trying to be helpful.

"Yes, there was that," her husband agreed.

"But nothing since then," she continued, smiling, "The Watch has been looking out for us."

Sally wondered for a second if she was being facetious but decide not, the smile was too ingenuous.

"No, nothing since then," Mr. Shivarananom confirmed.

Sally remembered the _unpleasantness_ , it had been a vicious mob with torches intent on looting, pillaging and then burning the whole Egitto to the ground. Fortunately it had been a fairly small mob and Vlad had managed to scare it away, and probably put the fear of Om into it too, but she was pretty sure that if not it, then something very like it would be back. Of course it wouldn't back while the likes of Marble, Axegrinder and Kubwa were patrolling. And then there was Lance Constable Bern Bernsson, or Bernie the Bolt, who could load and fire a crossbow so quickly that by the time you got around to being impressed by the speed you were already dead. And Corporal Granite, who wore a Leonardo Cap. This was a hat containing a strange device that could keep a troll's head cold for hours. Consequently, the corporal was able to accurately calculate the force of both the action and reaction of the punch, that was going to take your head off, even as he was throwing it. And then there was… oh, there were lots of them: humans, trolls, dwarfs, gargoyles, vampires, werewolves, bogeymen, zombies… The Watch had a lot of scary people on its books, and Carrot made sure they were all stationed in the Egitto at some point. But he knew, as she knew, as they all knew: it all depended on the size of the mob.

She realised fairly soon that the Shivarananoms weren't likely to tell her anything she didn't already know. Not if they could help it, anyway. So after thanking them for their time and draining the last of their, rather excellent, tea, she made her was –a trifle unsteadily- to her Secret Service meeting.

The Secret Service top brass: Kate, Patrick and she – and sometimes Harry - met in the back room of The Duck to share intelligence and plan strategy.

"No idea," said Kate, flatly.

"No idea about what?" asked Sally.

"About anything."

"That's rather sweeping. Are you saying you have no idea about…"

"Not me," Kate interrupted, "them, the enemy. They have no idea why they're doing what they're doing."

"Oh, that's ridiculous!" exclaimed Sally, "how can anyone not know why they're doing something?"

"You could ask Lucy," Patrick suggested.

"I'd ask you not to smirk!" Sally snapped at him.

"Hit a vein, did I?" he smirked.

"It's true enough, though," said Kate, "people often don't know why they do things, especially when they're drunk."

Here she spoke from long and bitter experience.

"So, are they drunk then, these anti-Omites?

It was a word Sally had read in _The Guardian_ and had found herself using more and more, that and _Omists_.

"Generally not," said Kate.

"That doesn't real help. So, you ask them why they hate Omnians and they say they have no idea?"

"Oh, they have lots of ideas," replied Kate, "but their ideas make absolutely no sense."

"How do you mean?" asked Sally.

"They say that Omnians take their jobs."

"Who does?"

"All of them," Patrick pitched in.

"I didn't realise there were that many opportunities for vegetarian chefs or bookbinders," said Sally.

"There aren't," Kate agreed.

"Silversmiths? Engravers? Watchmakers?"

"Not as many as you might think."

"I didn't think there were many at all."

"Then you were right."

"So what is it the Omnists actually do for a living?"

"Oh, lots of things," said Kate, "bricklayers, carpenters, plumbers…"

"Labourers," added Patrick, "ratcatchers, night-soilmen…"

"I did didn't realise that Omnians did much of any of those things."

"They don't," Kate said.

"I'm sorry," said Sally, even more flummoxed, "I'm not following this."

"But that's what it's all about," said Kate, "it's about following."

"Following whom?"

"Shopkeepers," said Patrick.

"Really? Well, there are quite a lot of Omnian shopkeepers, I suppose," Sally conceded, "so do people not like Omnian shopkeepers?"

"Oh, no, people do, generally, like Omnian shopkeepers: they're friendly, efficient and value for money."

"So, who doesn't like them?"

"Shopkeepers," said Patrick, "and this is where I come in. My task was to insinuate myself into, dishonest, exploitative and corrupt organisations, and that's shopkeepers for you. Oh, apart from Omnian shopkeepers, that is; they give you good stuff at a fair price and they do it with a smile."

"Then why don't people shop there?" Sally asked.

"Oh, they do," he assured her, "and that really annoys the other shopkeepers. They'd rather sell you crap at over-inflated prices and make out that they were doing you a favour…"

"As would we all," sighed Kate.

"Yes, quite," said Patrick, dubiously, "anyway, if there's anything a shopkeeper hates more than his customers, it's competition."

"Well, it's immoral," said Sally, "in fact it's downright disgusting, but it's not illogical."

"Oh, wait, I haven't finished," said Patrick, firmly, "you see, the Omnians are also a problem fornthe owners of: delicatessens, cheesemongers and wine-merchants."

"What!? How!?" Sally cried, incredulously, "Omnians don't eat meat, make cheese or sell wine. Are they confusing Omnia with Klatch, Genua and Quirm?"

"Ah," said Patrick, "this is where it all gets a bit strange."

"What do mean GETS?!" she wanted to know.

"It seems," Patrick continued, calmly, almost to counterpoint Sally's becoming increasingly fraught, "that there is an international conspiracy."

"You'll like this," said Kate with a wan smile and paused, "no, actually you'll hate it."

"What are you talking about!?" Sally demanded.

"It seems that an Omnian secret society…"

"The Quisition?" Sally interrupted.

"The Quisition wasn't secret," replied Patrick, "and in any case it no longer exists. The last I heard the society was called The Sequestration."

"Are you making this stuff up?" scoffed Sally.

"No," said Kate, "but somebody is."

"So who's behind it then? I don't mean the daft story; actually I do mean the daft story. Who made it up?"

"Well, that just brings us back to the start," Kate replied, "we have no idea."

"Do you mean Lord Bothermore isn't behind it, then?"

"No, he's no the leader," said Kate.

"The _leader-off_ maybe,"

"Meaning what?" Sally wanted to know.

"It's a phrase they use down the docks," Kate explained, "it means the person who starts a fight."

"But they don't follow him?" asked Sally, puzzled.

"No, he just stirs them up through his paper, but he's not the instigator…"

"Papers, surely?" Sally interrupted, "there's more than one, after all."

"Sort of," Kate sort of agreed, "but they all say the same thing.

"I suppose," Sally conceded, "though in slightly different language."

"Yes, granted: the ditch-diggers read _The Torch_ , the shopkeepers read _The Post_ , the accountants and lawyers read _The Tribune_ and the aristocrats read _The Chronicle._ But they all spout the stuff they read in the editorials virtually verbatim."  
"That's Tsortian for…" Patrick began.

"I know what it means," snapped Sally. "And how many Omnians are accountants, lawyers or aristocrats?"

"Not many, damn few and none at all," said Patrick.

"So, they're not stealing their jobs. And Bothermore's definite not their leader?"

"Just another follower," said Kate, "though a particularly noisy one."

"Which brings us back to…"

"We have no idea," Kate concluded.

"And what about these flags that I keep seeing?"

"The Black Cross, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"Same answer, I'm afraid. We don't know where they come from or what they mean, though the seem to be very popular."

"So, what now?" Sally wondered.

"We keep looking," said Patrick, "what else can we do?"

"Worry," said Sally.

 **Chapter 30**

It hadn't been easy, at least not for Agnes, to leave the behind the river, _The Pequod,_ oh, and quite by the way, without signifying anything whatsoever, Captain Richard Moby. His farewell had consisted in his thanking them each for their charming company, wishing them a safe onward journey and hoping to be able to escort them back when their business was concluded. He then kissed each of their hands in a theatrically gallant way. Moo had giggled, Tiffany had blushed and Agnes' heart had gone thumpity, thumpity, thumpity thump.

Everyone knew that Ankh-Morpork was nicknamed The Big Wahounie, mostly by people who had never been there. Its own citizens called it The Big Onion. According to the much travelled witch, Bae Deker, this was because: "it adds flavour to everything, brings tears to your eyes and boy does it smell".

Of course, Agnes had been here before so she wasn't overwhelmed, though she'd rather forgotten just how overwhelming it was. But as for the other two, well… For Moo everything unusual was a source of wonder, and Tiffany was always open to new experiences; this, however, was clearly of a different order.

The little girl gaped, wide-eyed at everything and Agnes thought she could almost see sparks coming out of her head. Tiffany, for her part, had turned back into a little girl. Whenever Agnes was frightened, or even nervous –which was as lot less often than it used to be, thank you very much- she would instinctively grab the front of her dress with her left hand. Tiffany's left-hand was holding one of Moo's but her right hand, Agnes noticed, was gripping the front of her dress. She looked terrified.

Naturally, this early in the morning, the city wasn't fully awake. It never slept, but it could, occasionally, appear to be dozing-off around three in the morning –"win, lose but never snooze" was an unofficial motto- by four-thirty it was out of bed, yawning, stretching and wondering what sort of mayhem it could cause. It was now six and mayhem was starting to be caused, this way, that way and in the middle. By virtue of her experience Agnes managed to steer them clear of any real danger, but she couldn't protect the little girls from the sheer scale of the place, and the incredible noise.

She tried to distract them by pointing out significant sites: the Patrician's Palace, the Opera House, the Monument to Madness…but it was no use; she could tell from their expressions that the three of them were currently living on different Discs.

It was a great relief when they finally reached Widdershins Park. The grass and the trees seemed to have a calming affect on Moo –who'd been difficult to keep hold of all the way from the river- and, conversely, managed to wake Tiffany from her dream state.

"It's a very big city," she said.

"It's gigantinormous!" exclaimed Moo.

"You do realise that that is only a tiny part of it, don't you?"

They both looked at her as if she was mad. They clearly didn't believe a word of it. Good old Agnes, she always likes a bit of leg pulling.

"No, really," she affirmed.

"What? Really?" asked Tiffany, very much still not convinced.

"Yes, really. REALLY!" she insisted.

"Oh, my gods!" exclaimed Tiffany.

"Woohoo!" yelled Moo.

The guild house of the Guild of Seamstresses was a large and well appointed mansion set in its own grounds in the middle of the park. It was a handsome building and its surrounding gardens leant it a charming, almost bucolic flavour that made it difficult to reconcile with chaotic riot of a city that surrounded it.

Unlike with most guilds, no formal training of apprentices was undertaken by the Seamstresses –work experience being considered to be the heart of the profession. The guild house itself, along with several other lovely houses throughout the city, served as a retirement home for some guild members who found they were no longer quite so in demand as they once were. In addition, any guild member who had suffered injuries, in what could be a dangerous profession, could convalesce there and obtain the best nursing care outside of Morpork Mercy. It also housed the Agony Aunts, who would gently interview the convalescents, and then forcefully pursue their cases. Nanny Ogg had become friends with the then Guild Mistress, Mrs. Rosemary Palm, some years before. Though Mrs. Palm had since gone off with the Tall Dark Stranger, the current Guild Mistress, Madame Fifi, and she had kept in touch. Consequently, when Agnes, Tiffany and Moo turned up at the door they were both expected and warmly welcomed.

A slender, pretty girl called Blodwyn greeted them and then led them through many huge, bright, airy rooms where the old ladies delighted in putting aside their embroidery to make a fuss of Moo, who seemed to be having a marvellous time. They also wandered through some spotless, sunny hospital wards where the little girl managed to cheer-up all the patients; even the ones with broken arms, broken noses and broken jaws. Apart from a few Igors it was and all-female environment.

In spite of her willowy frame Blodwyn was an Agony Aunt, one of the guild's enforcers. Should any member, going about her lawful business, encounter an unreasonable client it was the rôle of the Aunts to _reason_ with the miscreant, to ensure that the unreasonableness did not recur and that reasonable compensation was forthcoming or, failing that, that some suitable form of recompense was made. Given the nature of the job, Agony Aunts tended to be the sort woman who could go a few rounds with Cutthroat Kate, and there weren't many men who could do that.

Blodwyn just didn't look the type, but looks could be deceiving. She was from Llamedos and played something called _Rygbi_. This _game_ was close to the exact opposite of Messy Rules, in that it had so many rules that the average passage of uninterrupted play lasted about five seconds, before one of the team of referees blew his whistle to stop it. You could be penalised for being offside, onside, nearside, far-side, open-side, closed-side or backside.

It involved an egg-shaped ball that you weren't allowed to be infront of, but were frequently not allowed to be behind either. The only thing _Rygbi_ didn't seem to have a law against was assaulting your opponent with extreme violence. This was known as _taaackling_ and seemed to be the only thing that anyone was interested in. Blodwyn was known to _taaackle_ people in such a way that they ended up in hospital. There were twenty-eight players on each team and each position had its own name. She was the Closed-side Backward Flanker. She'd always wanted to play Hooker, but was too slight.

The current joint heads of the Agony Aunts were Big Morag –who was four feet eleven- and Wee Janet –who was six foot four. Janet was a gentle soul with pretty face, a sweet nature, a lovely smile, ham-bone forearms and fists of iron that could punch their way through a brick wall. Morag, by contrast, was a seething, fire-haired bag of barely controllable aggression –more like a very large pictsie than a very small human. They both came from the Baffled Islands –Glaikit, Mawkit and Drookit- on the other side of The Hub. The islands were famous for four things: appallingly bad weather, very hairy cows, an almost poisonously strong drink called _usquebaugh_ –from which modern-day whisky was thought to derive- and being the legendary homelands of the Nac Mac Feegle.

"Hullaw, hens, come away in," said Morag, "and sit yersels doon."

Fortunately, she pointed at the three chairs in front of her desk, so they didn't have to ask for a translation. After a couple of minutes of questions, which Blodwyn translated, Morag concluded with:

"Right, well, yeez ur mair than welcome and we'll look efter yeez right well. Noo it's time fur yeez tae see the Big Wummin."

"The interview is over, isn't it" Blodwyn offered, helpfully.

Janet hadn't said a word throughout, just beamed at them.

The Mistress of the Guild of Seamstresses was Madame Fifi. If she has ever so much as sewn a button on a blouse in her whole life, thought Tiffany, then I'm a troll, and not just any old troll, but Mr. Shine himself, and him diamond. It was said that she had often been a mistress and occasionally a courtesan, but obviously only at the most glittering courts on The Disc.

She opened the door to Blodwyn's knock and flashed them the most dazzling smile any of them had ever seen.

"Come in, mes petites, come in," she gushed, beckoning them forward.

Tiffany doubted that anyone could even guess how old she was, though she could tell that Madame was wearing a lot of makeup she doubted that there were many others who could: it was so expertly applied that it almost looked natural. It was only her eyes –which gave the impression of having seen a great deal more than they would have liked- that suggested she was a great deal older than she appeared.

"Good morning, ma'am," they said in unison as they curtsied.

"Do 'ave a seat," said Madame Fifi motioning them towards the three chairs in front of her desk.

"Thank you, ma'am," they again said as one.

The mistress seated herself behind the desk, placed her down-facing hands beneath her chin and looked at them intently.

"Alors," she began, "do you know why you are 'ere?"

"Not really, ma'am," said Tiffany.

"Zis will make four of us," Madame Fifi chuckled, "'owever, my good friend zee Patrician tells me that you are ver' important and that I must take great care of you."

Agnes was astonished. As far as she knew, The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was, quite possibly, the most important person on The Disc. That he should know who they were was amazing; that he should think they were _important_ was almost shocking.

After a few more minutes of pleasantries Madame Fifi said:

"Zo, you will want to settle into your rooms and zen I 'ope you will join me for lunch, no?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am," they said in chorus, nodding. With that they knew they had been dismissed, and Blodwyn was waiting for them outside the door.

Tiffany hadn't been keen on them having separate rooms, as she wanted to keep Moo as close to her as possible, but it turned out that Madame Fifi and she didn't understand _rooms_ in quite the same way. There was a bedroom with three neat little beds, a sitting-room with two armchairs and a sofa and a bathroom with hot and cold running water. She thought it was luxurious. Meanwhile the only word on Agnes' mind was _lunch_.

Lunch was delicious, of course –though not always identifiable- as the whole catering staff was from Genua, like Madame Fifi herself, who did indeed join them to talk about inconsequentialities while nibbling some bread and paste

They then whiled away the afternoon in the gardens, cheered up the old and unwell in the evening, had a sumptuous dinner and by the end of day one were thoroughly settled in. They still had no idea why they were there, though.

Moo was in bed and Agnes and Tiffany were sitting opposite each other in the armchairs.

"So, what do we do now?" asked Agnes.

"We wait," replied Tiffany.

"For what?"

"I don't know, for _something_ , I suppose."

But _Something_ was already waiting for them.

 **Chapter 31**

William was in his office counting out his money when Selene appeared, and _appear_ was precisely the right word for it as she became visible without any apparent cause. She wasn't there, and then she was.

"Oh, hi, Scoop," he said, trying to disguise the fright she'd given him again, as always.

"I've told you not to call me that," she sighed.

"Sorry," he shrugged, "I forgot."

"No, you didn't," she said, very slightly exasperated.

"No, I didn't," he admitted, "but I won't do it again."

"Yes, you will."

"Yes, I will," he admitted, "but only because you bring me so many exclusives."

"Then I sha'n't bring you any more," she threatened.

"Oh, go on, please," he mock-pleaded, "you know you want to."

"Hmmm. Anyway, how's business?"

"Sales are through the roof," William beamed.

"You do realise that the roof is rather a long way from here, don't you?"

"It's a figure of speech."

"Oh, you mean a cliché?"

"Sort of."

"Not precisely, then?"

"Well, yes, exactly," he conceded, sort of.

"Good, I'm glad we cleared that up."

"Yeeees," said William, not quite so sure. "Anyway, we're selling lots of copies, lots and lots and lots."

"Quite a lot then."

"A lot more than _The Times_ ever sold, that's for sure. And here's another thing: according to our source inside the Bothermore organisation the sales of _The Torch, The Post, The Tribune_ and _The Chronicle_ are all either flat or actually down," William laughed.

"Is that a touch of what Genuans call _joie malicieuse_?"

"C'est certainement," he affirmed.

"And why do you think this might be?" Selene asked.

"Because we're a fresh new voice challenging people's set ideas," he boasted.

"Don't people generally resent having their set ideas challenged?"

"Well, yes," said William, looking slightly puzzled, "they do."

"So, that's not likely to be the reason then, is it?"

"No," William agreed, thoughtfully, "it isn't"

"How peculiar," she observed.

"Yeees," he agreed, dubiously. "Anyway, do you have another exclusive for me?"

"Actually, I do."

"Great! What is it, Scoop?"

Selene decided not to acknowledge this one as she knew he was trying to vex her for some odd reason of his own.

"I have an interview with M. Quincaillier, a thirty-year-old ironmonger from Genua."

"Sounds fascinating," said William, sarcastically, "I hope there's an angle."

"He's dead."

"Sounds rather dull in that case. I assume you interviewed him before he died."

"No, afterwards."

"Ah, he's a zombie?"

"No."

"Ok, I'm, officially, intrigued."

"M. Quincaillier owns a shop called Ironware in Ellend Road. Tomorrow the front page of _The Post_ will carry a photograph of M. Quincaillier standing, smiling, outside his shop. However, it will call him Herr Eisenwarenhändler, claim he was sixty, came from Überwald and was murdered by a pack of rampaging Omnian thieves that raped his wife, wrecked his shop and stole everything he had. We have to wait for the first edition of _The Post_ so that Otto can photograph M. and Mme. Quincaillier holding it up and smiling outside his completely undamaged shop."

"I love it!" cried William, "Gudrun!"

The dwarf maid was immediately in the doorway.

"Yes, sir?"

"It's going to be another late one, I'm afraid."

"Those are my favourites," she said, turning on her heel, with a smile.

"You have no idea how lucky you are to have that girl," said Selene.

William thought that in this particular case _girl_ was probably the appropriate word. He thought that though, in spite of her looks, Gudrun was most likely over ninety, Selene was almost certainly older, a lot older.

"Actually, I do," he said, "but remember that I have Sacharissa working for me too."

"Ah, yes. Oscillations and revolutions, I suppose."

"What's that about?" asked William. He really didn't like not getting a reference."

"It's a figure of speech," she replied.

"But not a cliché?"

"No."

"Which is exactly why I don't understand it?"

"Precisely."

"Good," he said, "I'm glad we cleared that up."

They smiled at each other for a moment, and then William frowned:

"It's getting worse, isn't it?"

"Yes," she replied, "a lot worse."

"And there's absolutely no truth in any of their stories, is there?"

"Not a single word."

"And it's getting nastier too?"

"Much nastier."

"Any ideas as to why they're doing it?"

"Well, at first I assumed they were simply following the old gutter-press motto _hate sells_ but if, as you say, their sales are down, then I don't know."

"Do you think they believe what they say?"

"I think this story demonstrates that they can't possibly do so, though I think they want to, just as their readers do."

"But why would you want to believe that sort of thing?"

"Alas, that is a human thing and I do not pretend to understand them."

William thought it was very polite of her not to include him in the human race."

"Can we make a difference?" he wondered, hopefully.

"I don't think so," she regretted, "a lot of people are interested in the truth, but most aren't. We may outsell _The Chronicle_ or even _The Tribune_ , but the numbers sold by _The Post_ and _The Torch_ are frightening, truly frightening."

This was indeed frightening, as William didn't think there were many things that could scare Selene.

"Then why are we bothering to even do this?" he asked, also rhetorically.

"Because it's better than doing nothing at all," she said simply.

"I'll believe that if you will."

There was a commotion outside: the sound of several people bustling down the stairs, a couple of them tripping over each other, muttered curses, veiled threats as though a fight were about to break out and then Sacharissa appeared. William looked behind her, but there was no one else there.

"I'm here!" she announced.

"That much is undeniable," said William.

"She's very pretty, isn't she?" said Sacharissa, going off on what William termed a line through a pair of infinitely close points on a curve, but other people just called a tangent.

"Who is?" he asked.

"Gudrun, of course," she scolded, "hadn't you noticed?"

"I can't say that I had," he said, nonchalantly. Out of the side of his eye he saw Selene's eyebrows shoot up her forehead, disappear into her hairline and then come back down again and arch. He really wished he could do that; it was a brilliant effect.

It was said that there were people who could start a fight in an empty room. There was a dwarf who worked for The Watch that William thought this applied to particularly. Sacharissa, however, could start a brawl, or at least a serious jostling-match.

"Anyway, greetings, star-reporter," he said.

Sacharissa looked over her shoulder, but there was no one else there.

"I have an exclusive," she panted.

"So does everyone, it appears, I hope it's not the same one."

Selene frowned at him, which was like being slapped by a lesser being, but Sacharissa just looked blank.

"So, what have you got, a scoop?" he made sure he didn't look at Selene at this point.

"Well," she said, after a slight pause, "a reliable source has told me what is going to be on the front page of _The Torch_ tomorrow."

"And who is this source?"

"That's confidential; a reporter never betrays her sources."

"I'm not a judge, I'm your editor. Who is it?"

"A friend of a friend," she replied, slightly abashed, though only very slightly.

"Oh, there's nothing more reliable than a FOAF," he scoffed.

"Ok, then, it's Pierce Organ," she sniffed.

"The sword-swallower?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He's friends with Andy Kneel, who is a sub-editor at _The Torch._ "

"And a snivelling, little shit. So what?"

"So, he says that tomorrow it's going to run a story tomorrow about how a bunch of drunken Omnians wrecked Nan Does today and beat up a lot of people. But I was in Nan Does until closing time and nothing happened. Even if the Omnians had wrecked it, which they didn't, they'd have had a hard job persuading all those people to come back just to be beaten-up."

Nan Does was a restaurant whose advertising claimed that it served food "like your granny used to make". William didn't know to whom this could possibly appeal, but it seemed strangely popular.

"Have you used this guy before?"

"Yes."

"Have you written it up?"

"Yes."

"Ok, give me your copy. Selene, you give yours to Gudrun."

"Why doesn't she have to be edited?" asked Sacharissa, huffily.

"Really?" asked William, incredulous, "Seriously!?"

"Haaarrrumph!" sulked Sacharissa.

"Don't sulk, Sacharissa," wafting past her, "it's not attractive."

William took his pencil from behind his ear and began the gruelling task off eliminating ninety percent of Sacharissa's adjectives and adverbs. She was a good journalist and could be a good writer, but somehow she could never use one modifier when ten weren't nearly enough.

"William, I'm worried," she said, when Selene had gone.

"Deeply, profoundly, desperately worried?" he wondered.

"Don't, right? I'm not in the mood."

"I'm sorry, Sacharissa. What are you worried about?"

"Everything," she said, dramatically.

"Well, that's a lot to be worried about," he conceded.

"First off, I'm worried about one of my sources," she went on, ignoring his condescension, "the one close to Bothermore. She missed a rendezvous today and she's never done that before."

"She missed one meeting?" said William, with a frown "don't you think you're overacting? There could be any number of reasons that she couldn't make it."

"I suppose so," she admitted. She didn't mention that when she thought of Cowslip it wasn't just as a source, not mostly as a source, or even partly. But she wasn't sure she was even prepared to admit that to herself just yet.

"But I'm also worried about all this made-up news," she went on, "I mean, shops and restaurants _are_ being smashed up but it's not Omnians that are doing it; quite the opposite, it's almost always Omnian shops that are being smashed up and no one is reporting that, not even us."

" _Almost_?"

"Oh, William! This is Ahnk-Morpork, for gods' sakes! Do you think Mike and Bernie Summers don't smash-up people's shops if they don't pay their protection money?"

"True. OK, find me a witness, write me a piece and I'll put it in the paper."

"I can't, you know I can't! I've tried. Omnians won't report what's happening even to The Watch, and they certainly won't talk to the Press, understandably."

"Well, I'm sorry, then. Unless you actually witness one of these attacks yourself then I can't print a story without any corroboration."

"Why not? They do."

"Then we'd be as bad as them."

"We could never be as bad as them," Sacharissa almost shouted, "not in a month of months."

"Oh, that's less than three years," said William, doing a quick calculation in his head, "give us a bit more credit than that."

"But we're not making a difference!"

"How do you know?

"Because things are getting worse."

"Yes," he admitted, "they are, aren't they. And what about all this flag waving that they're doing? That black cross thing, what's all that about?"

"The Black Cross is an ancient symbol meaning _keep out_ or _forbidden_ ," Selene explained.

"So, what does it signify?"

"Inchoate rage."

"Oh, great," said William, "we can easily reason people out of that."

"So, what are we going to do?"

"We are going to continue to print the truth, so far as we know it, and continue to point out their lies, as we are doing today."

"And do you think that might work?" she asked.

"It might," he shrugged.

Not in a year of years, he thought.

 **Chapter 32**

For Lucy so much had changed in such a short time that it was not only hard to believe but difficult to remember what things had been like not so long ago. She didn't like to dwell on that as she had had quite enough of self pity. Enough to last her several lifetimes, for she truly had been a wretch. Not only had she felt sorry for herself but most people she'd met had felt sorry for her too –she could tell by their faces. Not everyone, of course; for some people seeing another person down was an open invitation to jump up and down on their head. But that was a different story and one that might be getting retold sometime soon, to their great regret.

The first thing she'd done was change jobs. She still volunteered at the Sisters of Kindness, of course, as she hadn't completely given up on penance altogether, but she'd resigned from Bernie's as that had just been wallowing in it. Bernie had been sorry to see her go and had given her a generous payoff to help her on her way. Mind you, if she'd been trying to avoid contact with blood then her new line of work might be considered a bit daft: she'd taken up nursing.

She'd been working at Morpork Mercy for some time, of course, but that had been mostly cleaning, that and the odd bit of bone setting. It was this that had first brought her to the attention of Matron; along with her remarkable ability to learn. Matron had first off decided to lend her a book, the standard textbook that every doctor and nurse not only swore by but also swore on at their accreditation ceremony, _An Introducthion to General Medithine_ byIgor & Igor. Lucy had given it back the next day. Matron had looked terribly disappointed.

"Too difficult for you, dear?" she'd asked.

"Oh, no, Matron, I've finished it," Lucy had replied.

"That's not possible!" Matron had exclaimed.

"Test me," Lucy had said, simply.

Needless to say she had passed the test, and every other test that Matron could devise, with ease.

It helped that she had a detailed, even intimate knowledge of human anatomy, was incredibly strong, had nimble little fingers that could cope easily with even the most delicate of procedures and wasn't in the least bit squeamish; all excellent qualities in any budding nurse. Oh, and she could anaesthetise patients just by looking at them. Like all vampires she was: highly intelligent, incredibly skilled, enormously versatile and hugely adaptable. They could have been a great boon to any society; if they hadn't been such monsters.

So, Nurse Lucy she became. She moved out of her dank cellar and into the nurses' home where, to her great surprise, she found that she enjoyed the camaraderie; she even liked her uniform. Admittedly, this had a way of hugging and accentuating her curves in a way that was the envy of the other nurses and was not at all good for any patient with a weak heart or a strong libido. She had close friend, Blister, who referred to her as her _bestie,_ and even a boyfriend, who had taken her on dates and introduced her to his family. She had gainful employment, somewhere to live and a social life. She was, basically, _normal_ , which for a vampire was about as weird as it gets.

Of course there were always going to be oddities. In spite of the débâcle at the picnic she and Smite had gone on another double-date with Blister and Patrick. It had been Patrick's treat -he seemed suspiciously well-off for a barman- and therefore his choice of restaurant. _La P'tite Folie_ was a Genuan bistrot that was well known for being, among other things, incredibly expensive. So expensive, in fact, that they didn't even bother including prices on the menu. She'd ordered steak tartare for her starter, had a couple of glasses of Château Pomerol –which was absolutely superb- and ordered her filet de boeuf _bleu_. When it came it was slightly overdone or, as Blister would have it, raw. She was, to her own amazement, having a lovely time and then Blister had brought up her own favourite subject, sex.

She'd learned later, from Patrick, that she'd done this once before on a double-date, though the outcome on this occasion had been rather different from the previous one. What Lucy didn't know about sex wasn't knowable and what she hadn't tried wasn't worth mentioning, at least not in polite company. Blister couldn't have looked more shocked if Lucy had smacked her in the gob, which itself, wide as it was, was almost matched in wide-openness by her eyes. Smite wore the serene look of someone who was meditating and therefore not really present, while Patrick struggled to contain his laughter.

Though they had separate rooms, she and Blister shared a bed as often as not and giggled about it now –giggling, I ask you!- but at the time Blister said she'd been too stunned to be embarrassed, otherwise she'd have been mortified. Her gast had been well and truly flabbered. She'd then asked Lucy to undertake her education, which Lucy had, and discovered that Blister was almost as good a learner as she was herself. _Tout dans le jardin était rose._ Well, not everything. 

One of the reasons she'd become friends with Patrick was that he turned-up a lot at Mishap and Urgency, having rescued another poor Omnian from gods knew what.

"Patrick, what's happening?" she'd asked on about the fifth occasion. Well, not _about_ , _on_ the fifth occasion.

"How do you mean?" he asked, feigning innocence; which he did suspiciously well.

"There can't be more than a few thousand Omnians in the city but they constitute a large percentage of the people who end up in here."

"Oh, there are only a few thousand in the Egitto, but not all Omnians live there."

"Nonetheless," she persisted, "they are only a tiny fraction of the population, so why do I see so many of them here?"

"Because they are being attacked," he said simply.

"I know they're being attacked," she said, irritably, "but why are so many of them being attacked?"

"Because they're being targetted," he said.

"By whom, the newspapers?"

"Well, they don't help, but it's not just them, there are a lot of Black Cross wavers."

"Yes, I've seen that sign a lot painted on walls and on flags hanging outside shops. What does it mean?"

"I don't know," he confessed.

"That's not helpful."

"What can I tell you," he shrugged.

"Patrick, why do you help them? The Omnians, I mean."

"Because my girlfriend is an Omnian."

It was a good answer, though Lucy wasn't convinced that that was all there was to it, but she let it pass.

"So, why do people attack them?"

"Because they hate them."

"Obviously ," she snapped, "but why do they hate them?"

"Ah, there you have me."

"Anyway, aren't The Watch supposed to protect them?"

"Well, The Watch does its best," he replied, "but they just don't have the numbers, even with all the volunteers."

A lot of people, –dwarfs, trolls, humans…- including two of Patrick's colleagues, Bruise and Shearer- had signed-up to be _special constables_ –the equivalent of army reserves- to help out. The Watch was having problems dealing with the extra strain the Omnian attacks were putting on its already stretched resources, as it still had to deal with a lot of normal, everyday crime. Of course, a lot of what Lucy would have considered crime was perfectly legal in Ankh-Morpork. Provided that your crime was sanctioned by: The Guild of Assassins, The Guild of Thieves, The Guild of Lenders… or indeed the Guild of Lawyers, then it was none of The Watch's business. However, this was different. She'd probably have volunteered herself, if she hadn't been so busy.

It was no better asking Blister or Smite; hard though they tried they couldn't come up with any reason why people would hate them, at least not as much as they appeared to. Omnians were, almost universally –and very unusually for humans- decent, honest, caring, generous, brave… Lucy had wondered initially if it was jealousy. In addition to their civic qualities, almost all Omnians were physically very attractive. Was it that they made their fellow citizens feel inferior?

"Oh, no," Blister had told her, "they look down on us; they say we're liars, cheats and thieves."

The average Omnian was almost incapable of lying, cheating or stealing; like the average dwarf, and very unlike the average human citizen of Ankh-Morpork. Also, you'd know immediately if it were an Omnian that was doing you over. The reason Blister had been subject to so much abuse was that everyone knew she was an Omnian because of her brown skin and her blonde hair. You couldn't hide that you were Omnian even if you wanted to. This was also the source of most of the anti-Omite slurs that she'd been hearing more and more of. _Blondie_ or more often _bleachie_ –to suggest it was fake- about their hair. _Coffee_ or _gravy_ about their skin, though there were much, much nastier ones. Didn't people have anything better to do? And if they had to hate someone then why not choose someone like moneylenders rather than Omnians? They certainly caused a lot of misery and they were never Omnian. Usury had been forbidden in Omism even before Brutha had turned up.

Things had been nasty for quite a while now and had been getting steadily nastier almost by the day, yet somehow tonight felt different, and not in a good way. There was, she felt, a certain tension in the air. Of course there was always a fair amount of nervousness in M&U on a Saturday night. Most citizens of Ankh-Morpork only got one day off a week and they seemed to like to spend it either: sick, unconscious or nursing bruised or broken limbs. But on this particular Saturday night it was more than that, and her vampy-sense told her that everyone else felt it too.

She went up to Blister, who was coiling bandages in the main treatment room and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Aaaargh!" screamed Blister, nearly jumping out of her uniform and nearly scaring the drawers off everyone else in the process, including Lucy. The Lady Lucrezia had scared the lives out of a great many people in her time, but always on purpose, and not for a very long time.

"Oh, gods, I'm sorry!" she gasped, clutching the front of her apron.

"No, no, no, no!" Blister panted, "It's OK. I'm just a bit jumpy tonight."

"Yes, I know," said Lucy, "you almost jumped through the ceiling."

"I think we're all on edge for some reason, hadn't you noticed?"

"Yes," Lucy affirmed, "like we're on the edge of a very sharp blade."

The thing was that even the Igors weren't quite as calm as they usually were, and these were people who were normally relaxed even when being pursued by a torch-bearing and scythe-wielding mob through a violent thunderstorm towards the edge of a precipice.

"What do you think it is?" asked Blister, her eyes darting everywhere as though she was hoping to spot the source of the problem.

"I don't know," said Lucy, "though Smite seemed worried this afternoon and said he had a bad feeling about what was going on around the Egitto over the last couple of days."

"Yes, Patrick said the same," agreed Blister.

"At least Patrick doesn't have to go and sort it out!" she snapped.

Blister looked startled and Lucy blushed. A blushing vampire was it now!?

"I'm sorry," she continued, "I'm just worried about him."

This was actually almost more worrying than blushing or giggling. She could not previously remember having worried about anyone other than herself, and even then not that much. This was all perfectly normal for a vampire, unnaturally, but to be worrying about someone else was, well, worrying. Especially how much she felt herself worrying about Smite, which was quite simply far more than was unnatural.

Shame came over to talk and looked, if anything, even more unsettled than anyone else.

"I have a very bad feeling about tonight," she said, her lip trembling.

They both nodded. A minute later the first casualties started arriving and worrying was no longer something they had time to worry about.

At first it had been no more than a trickle, just the usual limping-wounded: cuts and bruises, plus the odd broken bone and serious wound. It was only after the first Watchmen turned-up that it started to get bad.

Lance Corporal Igneous had a comrade under each arm: a human and a dwarf –Sergeant Dixon and Lance Constable Freyasdottir- whom he dumped in the foyer and then headed back out. Though there were an increasing number of patients and their injuries were getting worse, they were all highly trained and were treating them at tempest speed. As far as Lucy could see they were not only coping admirably but could probably cope with even more. And then Smite was carried in.

She was out of the door faster than a whippet after a ball. Smite didn't need her –he had doctors and nurses- but his mother and sister did, and they needed her now. Could she run fast enough? She wondered or would she have to…and then, suddenly in front of her, was Dirty Bobby. Up until now Lucy had had two ways of dealing with muggers: if she had money she would let them grope her until they found it and didn't she would simply run away. Dirty Bobby always liked a good grope and was far too stupid to realise that this really wasn't going to be his night.

He reached out one huge hand almost casually –he'd done this so often before- as Lucy tried to slip past him, as she'd often appeared to try to evade him before. On this occasion, though, she caught his flailing paw and, almost casually, broke all twenty-seven bones in it. His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open in what was almost a caricature of a scream as his face turned salt-white, but that was just the initial shock. By the time the real pain hit him and he passed out Lucy was already a hundred yards away and accelerating. But not fast enough, she decided, no time, as her clothes fell to the ground in a pile and a flurry of bats headed towards the Egitto.

They could see part of the mob heading up the Zarkom's street, breaking windows and kicking in doors. They circled briefly to get an overall view and could see that the Watch was in control in the rest of the Egitto and driving out the rest of the thugs; it was only here that they persisted. So, they began their descent in an almost vertical dive, unifying as they did so and starting to boil. Because of Sally people in The Shades knew better than to set upon a small, skinny, naked girl all alone late at night –if they valued their sanity- but these weren't people from the shades and in any case, tonight, Lucy really couldn't be bothered.

What partially materialised in front of the mob had four limbs but they were really only lengths of darkness tipped with claws. The head was something between a pig and a shark. She hadn't been able to make up her make up her mind, but it had a lot of teeth: all sharp and some very long. The bullies had actually started running even before they saw her. On this occasion her rage was preceding her, as the flash goes before the bang. Still, she raked a few backs, just for the look of it, as she didn't want to get dressed-down for nothing.

And then suddenly she was a small, skinny, naked girl running towards the Zarkom's house, her bare feet slapping on the cobbles. When she reached the house she saw, to her huge relief, that that it was undamaged -the sods obviously hadn't reached this far- but she had to make sure. She knocked on the door, no answer. She knocked again, a bit harder, but there was still no reply. She was about to start banging when she remembered something that Blister had been teaching her called _empathy_. She bent down, flipped-up the letterbox and called:

"Mrs. Zarkom, are you there? It's me, Lucy."

If someone had tried that trick on her she'd have seen through it in an Ankh-Morpork minute, but these were different people. She could hear the commotion immediately and within seconds the door was thrown open and she was confronted by Mrs. Zarkom's terrified face, which transformed immediately into an expression of appalled concern.

"Oh, you poor child!" she cried, "what have they done to you!?"

She threw her arms around Lucy and hugged her so tightly that she might have hurt herself, if Lucy hadn't relaxed her body in anticipation. And then there was Bom hugging her too and all three of them were bubbling. Lucy wondered if, in a very strange life, this might not be the strangest day of her whole existence.

"Have you seen Smite?" asked Mrs. Zarkom in a very worried tone.

"He's in the hospital," said Lucy to their frightened faces, "but he's alright, just minor injuries," she added reassuringly.

One of Lucy's many talents was her ability to assess the extent of a person's injuries with little more than a glance. It was a very useful skill for a nurse but, of course, that wasn't why she'd evolved it. When you were hunting you had to know how fast your prey might be able to run. She decided not to fly back.

"I'll take you to him," she said, "it's safe out now; The Watch is in control."

"Are you sure you're not hurt or…anything?" asked Mrs. Zarkom, looking over Lucy's nakedness.

"Oh, this?" she said waving her hands up and down, "I got my dress caught on a fence." And she used to pride herself on being such a good liar.

"Well, if you're sure," said Mrs. Zarkom, doubtfully, "but we'll need to get you some clothes."

It turned out that Bom's clothes were a little too small –though only a little, and her shoes fitted- while Mrs. Zarkom's were a little too large – though only a little and Lucy's morphogenic field took care off that.

"It looks really…good on you," said Mrs. Zarkom, wondering, slightly anxiously if she'd been walking around all this time looking _that_ sexy without knowing it.

The three of them walked to the hospital together hand in hand, with Bom in the middle and Mrs. Zarkom clutching the front of her dress instinctively, though in truth, given her escort, there was probably no one safer in the whole city.

After offering Smite some soothing words, squeezing his hand and kissing him on the forehead Lucy left him in his bed and to the tearful ministrations of his mother and sister. After checking with Matron that things were under control and that she wasn't needed, she went to volunteer for the Watch. There was a cross between a donkey and a horse that was going to get seriously kicked.

 **Chapter 33**

The situation room at Pseudopolis Yard was not a happy place. For one thing it was overcrowded. It wasn't that there were a lot of people in it, but it was a small room and one of the people was Sergeant Detritus, who was more or less a crowd all by himself. The others present were: Commander Carrot, Captain Stronginthearm, representing the night watch, Harry, representing the day watch, Sally, reporting for the Secret Service, Vlad, reporting on the prevoius night's events and, very unusually, the Duke of Ankh-Morpork.

Vimes wasn't happy that there were so many vampires on The Watch and was even less chuffed that there were three in this room, or possibly two – one and two halves. He supposed he should have been pleased the two halves were there, otherwise he would have been the only human in the room. Carrot was, technically, a dwarf; as any dwarf was happy to confirm. He bit his cigar and kept his mouth shut. Just. At least about that.

"So, does anybody here have any idea what's going on?" he asked.

Out of respect and due to a long familiarity, that wasn't exactly friendship, Carrot let him get away with it.

"The first thing we should do, I think" said Carrot, carefully taking back control, "is hear from Corporal Vossarionovich as he can give us an overview of what happened last night."

This was literally true as Vlad had spent a lot of time in the air, just occasionally diving down to help out where he thought he was needed. Everyone nodded, even Vimes they thought, though they couldn't be sure as Detritus was standing, or rather squatting, behind him so that he was largely in darkness. However, as the light of his cigar went up and down they assumed he was nodding.

"Vell," Vlad began, "vee vere prepared for trouble, zee smell of zumzink afoot in ze vind, as Nobby vould zay, zo vee had many more Vatchmen on duty, unt Vatchvimmin too, of course," he added, nodding towards Sally.

She could have slapped him for that. A Watchman was a Watchman, whatever their sex, and he knew it.

"Get on with it," muttered Vimes, through the side of his mouth that wasn't chewing his cigar.

"However, vee vere not prepared vor how much trouble zer vould be..."

"How many were there?" asked Vimes.

"Tvelve-huntret unt seventeen," replied Vlad, "give or take a dog."

Vimes was annoyed by the vampy precision, as if 'over a thousand' wouldn't have sufficed. He was also irritated by Vlad's suggestion that dogs might be involved in any of this. He liked dogs. Certainly more than he liked vampires. Yes, he'd been wrong about Sally, he admitted that, grudgingly. And, well, Harry was a almost above criticism and he'd never heard a bad word said about Vlad…but they were Watchmen, for gods's sakes. Vampires, in general, were rather different.

"And how did we cope?" asked Vimes. Carrot seemed happy to let the duke continue to behave as though he were still commander of The Watch.

"Vee coped very vell," said Vlad, "vee could even haff coped vis a bigger number…"

"But not a lot bigger," Harry added. He was slightly annoyed that this civilian was questioning one of his men so he directed this to the commander.

"How much bigger?" asked Carrot.

It was exactly the question that Vimes was going to ask, until he realised, belatedly, that he was no longer in charge. Being a duke made him rich, but it didn't make him important, at least not to these people. He approved of that.

"If we pulled together both shifts then over three thousand maybe four; with all the reserves then five, I'd say, but not more than six."

"So," said Carrot, "we know our limit. What are the chances of that limit being exceeded?"

"Unless something changes, then it is inevitable," said Harry.

They sat in silence for a moment as they each considered what the alternative to their _coping_ would involve.

"So," said Carrot, deciding that the alternative to _coping_ wasn't _not coping_ , "how do we change things?"

"Well," said Stronginthearm, shaking himself out of his dark reverie, "we could shutdown those bloody newspapers for a start." He wasn't great fan of the free press at the best of times; he was doubly annoyed that so many dwarfs were involved in producing their lies, but the clincher was that the Nyheterssons were making a fortune out of it, and he'd never liked them, typical Copperhead dwarfs he'd always thought.

"It wouldn't work," said Sally, on behalf of the Secret Service.

"Why not?" asked Carrot, he often found that he liked the reasoning of his fellow dwarfs and Stronginthearm's suggestion made sense.

"Well, I'll grant that they don't make things any easier, especially that woman in _The Post…_ "

"Hopkins, you mean," Harry interrupted, "the Queen of Spleen?"

"The very one, thank you," she said, sniffily. He mumbled an apology. "As I was saying, shutting them down, even if we could, would not change anything. First we'd be accused of being _them_ , which means everyone they don't like, and that's not just Omnians, because different _us_ obviously hate different _them_ , anti-Omism is just what brings them together. Also, without the News they'd just get their _news_ elsewhere: from their neighbour, the man in the pub, the woman in the shop… This stuff doesn't need facts, because it didn't have any of those to begin with; there certainly weren't any in the newspapers."

"True enough," agreed Carrot. "Any other suggestions?"

"Has anyone spoken to the wizards?" asked Harry out of the cerulean.

"Hah!" snorted Vimes.

"Pfff!" snorted Sally.

"Rrrrrrr," rumbled Detritus.

Some people liked Omnians, Patrick and Lucy for example, some people liked Watchmen-and not just other Watchmen- there were even sad benighted serfs who love the aristocrats, but nobody liked wizards.

"Why in gods' names would we do that!?" asked Carrot.

"Doesn't anyone else think there's something suspicious going on here?" Harry persisted.

"I'm not sure I follow you," said Carrot.

"Well," Harry continued, "there've been Omnians in the city for years and it didn't seem to bother anyone. Hells, last Hogswatch they were happily mixing and laughing with everyone else around the bonfires, even though they don't really approve of the Hogfather and nobody minded. And that's about when it started."

"You know, I think you're right," said Sally.

"Sergeant?" said Carrot.

"That's about when I started to notice the snide comments, the nasty looks and the horrible sniggers. And that was before the papers started saying anything. And then the muggings started, but we thought nothing of it, what with all the background violence that we've got so used to…"

"And then the black crosses started to appear. You'll remember that I embarrassed myself in front of both you and The Patrician because I didn't know what it meant, but you did," Harry added.

"It means 'keep out'," said Carrot.

"Yes," Harry agreed, "but there's more to it than that. Have you noticed that some of the crosses now have little hooks on the end of each arm?"

"Yes," said Carrot, "is that important?"

"Yes, it is," said Harry, "I've been doing some research: the _hooked cross_ is a very ancient symbol and it is pure hatred, it doesn't just mean 'keep out' it means 'get out or we'll kill you'."

"And you think that for all this hatred to arise in such a short time without there being any obvious leader is a bit suspicious?"

"Yes," said Harry, surprised by the quickness of Carrot's uptake, "and more than a bit."

"Put like that, I think I'm inclined to agree with you," said Carrot, "magic?"

"Of the darkest sort."

"We shall mention it to The Patrician at our meeting this afternoon." Harry's face fell at the thought of it. "Would you care to accompany us, your Grace?" continued Carrot, now addressing the duke.

"Ah, no thank you, Commander, I think I'll give that one a miss if you don't mind. Did we make many arrests?" he asked, quickly changing the subject.

"Yes, quite a lot," said Carrot.

"I didn't see any downstairs," said Vimes.

"Ah," Harry chipped-in, "there was a bit of a misunderstanding there."

"Really, what was that?"

"Go on, tell him Harry," said Sally with a smirk.

Harry looked hopefully at his Commander but Carrot just nodded for him to continue.

"Well, as you know, we don't have all that many cells, so when Sergeant Detritus asked me what he should do with them I said that I would like to lock them all up but that we would just have to let them go."

"I dudn't hear him right," said Detritus, in his defence.

"Some of them got _locked-up_ quite badly before we let them go," said Sally, " _décourager les autres_ , as they say in Genua."

Vimes managed not to laugh, but only just.

"That's modern policing for you, I suppose," he said.

"Well, I think that's everything," said Carrot, wrapping-up, "Harry and I have an important meeting to attend. Stronginthearm, you're in charge while we're gone. Von Humpeding, see if you can find out anymore about what's behind this. Your Grace, thank you for your valuable input and Detritus, try not to lock anybody else up, the hospital is already overstretched."

"Sur!" said Detritus, banging his hand on the ceiling as he saluted

As they were all leaving Sally came up behind Harry and whispered in his ear.

"If you'd said _knock-up_ then I could understand the misunderstanding, but that would have been weird. However, _lock_ and _beat_ probably don't sound that similar even to Detritus."

"As you were, sergeant," snapped Harry.

"Yes, sir," she replied, with a salute of her own and then skipped merrily away.

Women! Thought Harry, can't live with them; can't kill them. In this case quite literally.

If anything, Harry thought, this walk to The Patrician's Palace was worse than the one before; then he'd just been filled with apprehension, now he was filled with a sense of impending doom. It wasn't as though he could even talk to Carrot about it. They were in this together, of course, of course they were but, on the other hand, they weren't in this together, because Carrot was his boss. Not that he thought the Commander would throw him to the werewolves just to save his own skin, of course not. Mind you, had their positions been reversed…

Drumknott was waiting at the door of The Patrician's office when they arrived, which he was sure wasn't a good sign, and he opened it to admit them, which he thought was probably worse, as he closed the door behind him.

"Ah, come in, come in," said Lord Vetinari getting up from behind his desk and motioning them towards a small table that had been set with three comfortable chairs and also sherry and biscuits. Harry really had no idea at all what to make of this; he couldn't have been more lost if he'd been looking for a black spot on a black cat in a dark mine, while blindfolded.

"Will you join me in a sherry?" asked The Patrician.

"No thank you, my lord," said Carrot, answering for both of them, "we're on duty."

Right then Harry would have killed for a sherry' or at least bitten someone's arm off…well, maybe a finger; a hand at most.

"As you wish, do be seated."

They did as they were bidden and Harry noted that The Patrician didn't bother with the sherry and biscuits himself. It had probably been a test. Gods' know everything else was.

"So," Vetinari began, "much has changed since we last met, hasn't it?"

"Yes, my lord," they agreed in unison.

"Have you discovered the meaning of the black cross yet, captain?"

"Yes, my lord," Harry replied, "but there's more to it than we first thought…"

"The _Hooked Cross_?" asked Vetinari.

"Er, yes, my lord," said Harry, deflated.

"Well done."

He supposed that if he were going to be patronised then it was best to patronised by a patrician, as they were practiced in the art, but it still didn't mean he liked it.

"Your men acquitted themselves well last night," he continued, now directing his attention to Carrot. Harry would have said 'thank you', Carrot didn't, as he didn't think it was his compliment to take.

"Is there any reason to believe they cannot do so again?"

"No, my lord."

"Is there any reason to think they cannot do so indefinitely?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then we appear to have something of a problem, don't we?" said The Patrician

Is this an understatement competition? Harry wondered.

"Yes, my lord."

"Do you have any contingency plans?"

"We have calculated how many rioters The Watch can handle if we double-shift and call on all our reserves and it is a great many more than we had to face last night."

"Probably five or six thousand, I would have thought."

"Yes, my lord," agreed Carrot.

"And beyond that?" asked Vetinari.

"We cannot cope," said Carrot, simply.

"Well, of course I could call out the militia, but they are not generally of the same calibre as The Watch, and might actually be on the wrong side in this one. Is there anything else we might try?"

Carrot look directly at Harry, who nonetheless took a moment to take his cue:

"Well," he began, "we've been thinking that what with the speed at which this has all escalated that there may be magic at the root of it."

"I'm sure your right," Vetinari agreed.

"Weeell," Harry went on, slightly non-plussed, "we were wondering about, in that case, if the wizards might help in some way."

"An interesting thought," said Vetinari, "indeed one that I had myself. Unfortunately, I must report, after my meeting with the Arch-Chancellor this morning that we can expect no help there."

"Why not?" asked Harry.

"Mr. Remembar said that the University must always remain, 'neutral in all matters of politics' I think were his words."

As if you don't remember ever word that he, or anyone else, has ever said to you, Harry thought, enviously.

"They're a bunch of selfish, over-privileged cowards," Carrot translated. As though Harry hadn't understood.

"And on that note, gentlemen," said Vetinari, rising, "I think our business is concluded. Thank you for your update."

As if we told you anything you didn't already know they both thought as they made their way to the door that Drumknott was already holding open.

"Oh, sergeant Mudd," said The Patrician at the last moment, "might I detain you briefly?"

Carrot didn't even look back and Harry retook his chair feeling more perplexed than ever.

"Have a sherry, Harry," said Vetinari, "you look as though you need it. Also, the biscuits are very nice."

"Thank you, my lord," said Harry gulping down the one that had been poured for him and eyeing the one that had been poured for Carrot. "Did you want to talk to me about something?"

This, he thought, must be the most stupid question he'd ever asked. Why else was he still here, after all, sherry appreciation?

"Indeed I do," said Vetinari, refilling his glass, "I believe The Watch has just taken on a new recruit who is a distant relative of yours."  
"Ddyy mmmn, Lucy?" he asked, with a mouthful of biscuit, which was indeed very nice.

"The Donna Lucrezia, yes."

"We're eighth cousins," said Harry. Actually, in vampire circles –at least the ones that didn't consist of peasants with torches- this wasn't considered too distant.

"Quite so," said Vetinari, "I wondered if you might assign her to a special project on my behalf."

"Of course, my lord," said Harry, sipping his second sherry, "anything."

He knew it was a mistake as soon as he'd said it, this was The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, for gods' sakes, _anything_ could mean, well _ANYTHING_!

"There is a child, a little girl, currently residing with the Seamstresses in Widdershins Park; I would like your eighth-cousin to be her protectress."

"Just that?"

"Just that."

"Might I ask why?"

"You may, but I can't answer you."

"Of course," Harry nodded.

"No," The Patrician attempted to clarify, "it is because I don't know."

Harry doubted that anyone had ever seen Vetinari this unsure of anything in his life, not even his mum, assuming he had one.

"I only know that she is important, very important, and that her importance is intimately related to what we have been discussing."

That was more than enough for Harry. He stood up, snapped to attention and saluted.

"It shall be done, my lord," he said.

"I'm counting on you, captain," said Vetinari.

"We won't let you down, my lord," he affirmed and, turning on his heel, he strode out of the room a far happier man than when he'd entered it.

It was genius: Lucy would be looking after the little girl and then, to some reciprocal extent, the girl would be taking care of Lucy and leading her towards the light. Not _back_ towards, of course, that would be silly as Lucy had never previously been one of the light's biggest fans. It would not only work, it was wonderful, it was perfect; it was a match made on Dunnmanifestin itself.

Unfortunately, it was also too late.

 _It had been getting cold lately Nanny had begun to think. Well, not cold, exactly, what with it being the height of summer and all, but certainly colder than she remembered it being normally at this time of year. Mind you, her memory wasn't what it used to be, as she'd be the last to admit. Oh, nobody ever said anything, 'course not: the boys was too polite and the girls was too scared and the grandkids didn't notice or if they did they didn't care and the great-grandkids were still in nappies, most of them. But whatever anybody might say about Gytha Ogg's failings, and there was plenty stupid enough to say a lot, nobody could ever say she was stupid. Well, apart from Esme, natch, but that was different._

 _Whenever she'd say something that suggested her mind was going its own way the daughters-in-law and granddaughters-in-law would look down and the boys would look away. Apart from her favourite, who'd look her straight in the eye and frown. Oh, she knew it was wrong to have favourites but she couldn't help it. Now, of course, her real favourites was any of them as couldn't walk more than ten feet without falling over –apart from Neville on a Saturday night that is- but Nena had a special place in her heart. She knew that that girl had suffered. The way all women who had also suffered could always tell._

 _Anamaria –Nena to Nanny- was the black-haired, black-eyed, brown-skinned beauty that her grandson Shane had met in far off Hersheba when he was a sailor. Now Nanny was the first person –often the only person- to say that any Ogg was as good or better than anyone else, but even she was at a loss when it came to Nena. Shane was a good looking boy, most people agreed, a strapping six-feet of sea-harden muscle, with a sharp and cunning brain and a decent sense of humour and, more importantly, a sense of honour and duty. He was a good catch for any girl in Lancre, and most girls on the Disc for that matter…but not for Nena._

 _People in Lancre mostly didn't approve of people who weren't from Lancre and certainly didn't like people from "Forn Parts", but somehow, right from the start, they could all see that Anamaria was different._

 _To begin with, none of them could understand how Shane had persuaded her to marry him. She was as close to the perfection of the female form as any of them –sometimes feverishly- could imagine: a tall, graceful, sultry dream of flowing curves and full-lipped enchantment. When she smiled it was like someone striking a match in a dark room, when she laughed it was the sound of rain after a drought and when she danced –in her frilly, little, white Hersheban, off-the-shoulder dress in her bare feet with her painted toes and her ankle chains - she had all the men, and most of the women reaching for a strong drink. All of the women were envious and jealous of her, and all of the men were in love, or at least in lust with her. She could have been the most divisive person in whole community, and was quite the opposite, once that that the women all realised, with great relief, that she wasn't interested in their men and the men realised the same thing, with crashing disappointment. In fact she hardly talked to the men at all, apart from Shane, but talked to the women all the time, especially the old ones, and she loved children. No one could find a bad word to say about her, not even Granny –try though she might- who'd thought her too good to be true. Though, when Anamaria had named her own little girl Esmerelda even the old baggage herself had given up the fight. Yes, Nena could always warm Nanny's heart, and her feet, but tonight she'd sent her away. Nena had just nodded, as though she knew why. There was a lot more to that girl than any of them knew, and Nanny regretted that she would never get the chance to find out all of it herself._

 _Then it suddenly went from being rather chilly to being really quite cold, but Nanny decided not to reach for her glass of scumble._

" _Good evening, your lordship," she said to her long expected guest._

" _GOOD EVENING, MRS. OGG," said Death. "I TRUST YOU ARE KEEPING WELL."_

" _Oh, I can't complain, my lord," she said. Witches in general, and Nanny Ogg in particular were not generally ones for standing on ceremony, even for kings, but there were exceptions. "Well, I could," she laughed but who'd listen?"_

" _I ASSUME YOU HAVE BEEN EXPECTING ME."_

" _Yes, my lord. I have a word or two I want to say to that Weatherwax woman," she laughed again._

" _SHE SAYS MUCH THE SAME ABOUT YOU," He replied in the hoarse rattle that he fondly imagined was a chuckle._

" _Can I just ask one little question before we goes?"_

" _WE HAVE LITTLE TIME, MRS. OGG."_

" _Just one?"_

" _VERY WELL."_

" _Will it all turn out alright out in the Big Onion?"_

" _THAT I CANNOT SAY."_

" _You won't tell me?"_

" _NO, I DO NOT KNOW."_

" _But we've got Right on our side, right?"_

" _THERE IS NO RIGHT AND WRONG, MRS, OGG, THERE IS JUST ME."_

" _That's rubbish," she said, "and YOU know it." This was, she knew, no way to talk to the Grim Reaper, but she was past caring._

" _THERE IS GOOD AND EVIL, BUT THERE IS NO JUSTICE. THERE IS JUST ME."_

" _In that case, it's time I left."_

" _YES," He agreed, "IT IS. THERE IS NO NEED TO RISE."_

" _I wants to," she said, petulantly._

" _VERY WELL."_

 _She struggled out of her chair, He swung His scythe and she slumped back into it. Blackness._

 _How long the blackness lasted she didn't know but then it started to turn into a sort of grey fuzz which then began to grow both brighter and greener, and then it suddenly resolved itself into the little meadow up behind the castle where she and Granny used to play when they were children._

 _There was a girl in it now, of about eight or nine Nanny would have guessed, though it was hard to tell from the back. She was skinny and big-boned; her hair was dirty-blonde, long and unkempt; her dress was torn, she wasn't wearing any shoes and her feet were dirty. She was singing to herself, or the birds or the sky, in a sweet, off-key voice and dancing in awkward, gangly sort of way that said she didn't care who saw her._

" _Hello," said Nanny, awkwardly._

 _The girl span round and Nanny thought she looked oddly familiar, especially that gap between her two front teeth._

" _Hello, Gytha, do you want some greeners?" she said holding out a handful of plums._

" _Esme?" asked Nanny, tentatively._

" _The one and only," the girl replied. "I've been waiting AGES!" she added, all feist and annoyance, throwing a greener at Nanny. She caught it surprisingly easily and wished she could have bitten it like she used to…and then she looked at the hand that had caught it. It wasn't an old lady's hand; it was small and young and plump and strong, so she flipped the plum over her back and caught it in the other hand. She felt her soft, smooth, unwrinkled face with her palm, ran her fingers through her thick, luxuriant hair and slapped her firm young thigh. She clenched her full mouth of teeth, popped the plum in her mouth, chewed it up and spat out the stone. She stretched her supple back, flexed her hard biceps and looked down at her sturdy little legs_

" _I'm ready for an adventure, Gyth," laughed Esme , "what do you think?"_

" _Moo and Margs!?"_

" _I will if you will."_

" _Yippee!" cried Gytha._

 _And so the adventure began._

 **Chapter 34**

Sacharissa had been walking the streets again, not in the way that seamstresses did, of course, that was too much like hard work, and work she didn't have the stomach for. She'd made friends with a number of seamstresses over the years and it turned that the stomach wasn't the only part she didn't have for the job. They were usually the best source of information on any subject in the whole city, however, even they were almost dry on this one. And not just this one. It seemed that some of their clients would sometimes start talking about things –the ones who could do more than grunt, that is- and then suddenly mussel up for no obvious reason. She hated when people did that when she was just looking for a quote, even off-the-record by an unnamed source. Who in gods' names did they think was listening!?

She was doing more at the moment than chasing stories, though: she was looking for Honeysuckle, because she hadn't seen or heard from her in ages. She'd been round all the places they were used to haunting but no one there had seen her ether. To Sacharissa she wasn't Katy anymore but a beautiful pink flower and she couldn't get her face out of her head, even in her dreams. She didn't think that was true for many other people, which was why she carried the photograph.

Pieces had begun to appear in The Post under her byline and accompanied by her picture. Of course it was not her real photograph anymore than they were her real words; she was incapable of being so horrible, but the iconograph did look a lot like her. There was an imp who worked for Otto called Gorge who could take any iconograph and make it a great deal larger without losing any detail. It was this _engorgement_ that she was currently carrying around and asking 'have you seen this woman'? The answers were four, and one of them was more than a little strange.

She generally got 'no', of course but she also sometimes got 'yes, and she's talking for the people'; more frequently there was 'that bitch, I'd string her up'… However, what she thought very odd was that, apart from 'no', the most common answer was no answer at all. It was a sort vague recognition followed by a blank look and then an air of whimsical forgetfulness.

It was no better down The Duck. Sacharissa was valued most at _The Guardian_ for her 'source within The Watch' pieces, but in truth it was really more sources than she could count, let alone name. Every Watchman had stories they wanted to share and virtually none of them wanted to share them with _The Torch, The Post, The Tribune_ or _The Chronicle._ Luckily they could all tell her down The Duck. If everyone was dishing the beans then no one was.

This time though no one seemed to know anything, not even Kate. Mind you, no one in The Duck actually read _The Post_ –not even the hopeless drunks- so the iconograph wasn't really going to help much, and of course the pieces by The Queen of Spleen kept appearing in _The Post_ , but then they hardly needed Honeysuckle for that, did they?

This was by far the longest time they'd gone without seeing each other since the first time they'd met and she was starting to get worried. With good reason, as it turned out.

Unlike most people, Katy hated having her name in the paper and hated having her picture in it even more. To begin with it wasn't her real name1, secondly, it wasn't her real picture – _The Post_ couldn't do photographs like _The Guardian_ could- it looked a bit like her, quite a bit in fact, though it did make her look rather gaunt… Anyway, thirdmost, both the name and picture were attached to some of the vilest words Katy had ever read; words that her mother would disown her for if she ever found out she'd written them. Not that she _had_ written them of course. For some time, she hadn't even been aware that she was supposed to have done so. When you worked for the Bothermore Organisation you learned very quickly that what you did was none of your business. It was hardly slavery –she was paid rather well- but it was made very clear that she was no more entitled to consideration than the cleaners, or indeed the floors they cleaned. Lord Bothermore would occasionally ask her opinion, just to see if he liked the sound of it, not because he valued it in any way, and he was fond of making that clear.

This then was her situation: she was becoming increasingly famous for doing something that she wasn't actually doing and would have been too ashamed to do even if she'd been asked to. It wasn't as if she was being paid anything for the pieces that she wasn't writing for _The Post_ , after all. Not that that would have made her feel any less ashamed of them, of course, but it might have taken the edge of it. And now she was headed for Bothermore Hall again with Rose and no prospect of escape this time, unless _The Guardian_ could come up with some gigantic scandal about Lord Bothermore to further infuriate her employer.

He'd been in a foul mood that morning when they'd left but it was always easy to further infoul it. Generally, when he wasn't trying to smarm his way into more money or influence, his moods ran from foul through fouler and more fouler to foulest, more foulest and finally most foulest and then some. If the scale ran from one to eight then at breakfast he'd been a one or possibly a two. After his conversation with Kelvin Side, the editor of _The Tribune_ he'd jumped to a four and was pushing a five. The list of things that annoyed Lord Bothermore was long: longer than a troll's arm, longer than a dragon's tail, actually longer even than long, Katy thought. It could simply be the mildly irritating: an insufficiently low bow from a servant, her not curtseying sufficiently curtly or meeting his gaze because she'd failed to lower her eyes quickly enough. More serious would be asking him questions –other than 'what can I do to increase, you pleasure, my lord?'- as they really irritated him. As if he had to answer for anything. More serious still were offences such as treating him as if he were no better than your equal, making jokes at his expense and, most serious of all: making money at his expense. Serious offences had been committed that very morning and, once again, _The Guardian_ was to blame.

Of course Lord Bothermore didn't like rivals, no businessman does, a monopoly is good for everyone, after all, but there were some rivals he was prepared to tolerate, at least for a while. Arthur Hearsay's _Daily Press_ had tried to take on _The Post_ and Lord Acre's _The Dispatch_ had set itself up as a rival to _The Tribune_. He'd seen them both off in the end but it had always been a friendly rivalry in any case, and they'd certainly never have accused each other of being liars. Unlike _The Guardian,_ scurrilous little rag that it was.

"This is outrageous!" Lord Bothermore had raged when Kelvin Side had informed him that, according to their best estimates, _The Guardian_ was now selling more each day than _The Tribune_ and _The Chronicle_ combined.

"I'm afraid it's true, my lord," said Kelvin Side1

"Whose fault is that?" Bothermore demanded to know, "what have you done?" What was certain was that if there was blame to be attached then none of it was going to be attached to him.

"We have changed nothing, my lord," said Side, "neither I nor Ozzy Charles at _The Chronicle._ "

"Then why have we lost readers?"

"According to many of the ex-readers," said Side, with a due sense of foreboding, "it is that it makes fun of you and calls you a liar."

"WHAT?!" Lord Bothermore yelled, "how DARE they!? How can they get away with that!?"

"Well, we do tell lies, my lord," said Side, matter-of-factly.

Sitting in the corner, with hands demurely in her lap, Katy had to pinch her own knees really hard to stop herself from laughing. Not that either of them would have noticed.

"We do NOT tell lies," said Bothermore, very coldly, "anything that we may invent we do only in the service the greater truth. People must be made aware of that."

"We do say that, my lord," said Side, though not in those words, he thought, "but, unfortunately, people who read _The Guardian_ won't hear."

"Then I want it smashed up," said Bothermore, flatly.

"Ah," said Side, "we did that with _The Times_ and it didn't really work."

"What do mean that it 'didn't really work', it's gone, isn't it?"

"Yes and no, my lord."

"Don't try that with me, Kelvin," Bothermore cautioned.

"It is true, my lord," Side began carefully, "that _The Times_ itself no longer exists, nor does its building, but Otto Chreik and the woman Selene now both work for _The Guardian._ "

"Then smash it up!" Bothermore demanded, "let's see where they go to work then."

"We can't, my lord, we can't find it."

"Then smash up the people who sell it."

"Again, we can't, my lord, they're Fools."

"Of course they are," snorted Lord Bothermore.

"No, my lord, I mean they're members of the Fool's Guild."

"So what?" Bothermore snorted, "I'm not afraid of a few fools."

"Nor is anyone else, my lord," Side tried to explain, "but as far as the Guilds are concerned, to disrespect one is to disrespect all, and there are some guilds who are rather more frightening than the Fools."

"Hrrmmm," Bothermore growled.

The Thieves were frightening, The Assassins were scarier still, but even he would never contemplate being looked at out of the wrong eye by The Guild of Lenders.

"Then I want to know who's behind it, find out," Bothermore demanded.

"Yes, my lord," said Side, "but we already have our suspicions."

"Well?"

"We think it's being run by de Worde, the same man who started-up _The Times..."_

"What!?" Bothermore exploded, "that little weasel again? I'll have his head."

"Also, we believe the dwarves are providing the printing services _gratis_."

"Really, why? When have the shortarses ever turned their stubby noses up at a profit?"

It was the sort of casually racist remark that Side wished he could persuade his boss to curb. It wasn't the sentiment that bothered him so much as its crudeness.

"Well," he explained, for what felt like the nteenth time, "there was that hate campaign you did."

It had been before Side's time so even Bothermore wasn't going to get away with pinning that one on him.

"And if you stir-up hatred, then people might hate you for it."

"But we stopped that," Bothermore protested.

Yes, because other people made you do so, thought Side.

"Anyway," he continued, "that was a long time ago."

"Dwarfs have long memories," Side pointed out.

"Longer than their legs, at least," Bothermore snorted.

Side sighed, but thanked the gods that he wasn't responsible for his employer's PR. He looked over at Katy and smiled, pityingly. She smiled wanly in return.

"Right," Bothermore decided, "I'm going to the Hall."

Killing a lot of defenceless animals might not help, but it couldn't hurt.

Oh, good, thought Side. Oh, no, thought Katy, and Frau

Strohdachdeckerin will be waiting.

The journey this time had been, unfortunately, uneventful and _The Guardian_ hadn't managed to produce anything sufficiently scandalous to turn them round. On the other hand, Katy had to admit, it was good to get out of the city and into the fresh air. The heat in Ankh-Morpork was becoming almost unbearable and there never seemed to be the least breath of a breeze. There wasn't any wind out here on the plain either, but at least there was open space, because back in the streets it was suffocating. In the distance she heard faint thunder but she was almost certain that the storm would be passing them by. For weeks now everyone had been praying for rain, to any and every god they could think of, a good storm was what they needed; to clear the air and cleanse the streets, but, though the skies would often rumble and the clouds would gather and darken, for some reason the storm never broke. It was as if the weather gods were toying with them.

"Sounds like there's a storm coming," said Rose.

"Umm?" said Katy, "oh, yes, no, I don't think so."

"I wish it would come," said Rose, "I like a good storm. I love lightening."

So did Katy. Rose had been chatting to her for ages now while Katy's mind had been off playing in the clouds; it wasn't as if she generally had to reply or anything like that. It was a peculiar talent that the maid had: she could talk, almost endlessly, without really saying anything –she called it chattering- and it gave people the impression that there was nothing happening inside her head, ever. It had even fooled Katy for a while, in fact right up until they'd first shared a bed together. The person Rose became when she was talking to someone she trusted, and when she was sure no one could overhear them, was a Disc away from the silly little girl everyone thought she was.

"If you're a woman it's best that people don't think you're too clever," she'd confided in a whisper on that first night and Katy had, from then on, been astonished at how well Rose hid the fact that she was at least as intelligent as Katy –possibly even as clever as Sacharissa- and a lot more intelligent than any of the men around her. And as Rose began chattering again, about willows or windowpanes or something, Katy's thoughts returned to Sacharissa: was she worried about her missing their rendezvous? Did she believe that she was really The Queen of Spleen? Was there a place in her heart for Honeysuckle Hopkins that was anything like as big as the one in hers for Sacharissa Cripslock? So, as the coach rattled and Rose prattled, did Katy pass the hours to Bothermore Hall.

At _The Guardian_ offices Sacharissa found an editorial meeting was taking place: on the one side, as always, were William, Selene and Otto while on the other –instead of her- was Gudrun, who looked rather different from the last time she'd seen her. Instead of the pretty little girl in the print room there was a dwarf, a proper dwarf. Gone were the summer dress and the ballet-pumps; instead there was chain-mail and stout, steel-toecap boots –all the better to kick you with- and the curly mop and bright smile had been replaced by fiercely-tied braids and an even fiercer frown.

"Gudrun, has volunteered for The Watch," said William, a note of exasperation in his voice.

"Good for her," said Sacharissa. Gudrun managed to give her a tight smile in return.

"But not good for the paper," said Selene.

"I have not, nor will I, neglect my duty to _The Guardian_ , but my first duty is to the city," Gudrun made clear.

"Quite right," said Sacharissa, "there are more important things than a bloody newspaper, after all." Honeysuckle, for one.

"Not for me there aren't," said William.

"Well, that just shows what a sad and pathetic life you lead," said Sacharissa, snootily.

"William's problem is with what Gudrun wants him to put in his editorial," Selene continued.

"What?" Sacharissa asked.

"Mr. de Worde doesn't want to say that the Bothermore papers have a policy of inciting violence against defenceless Omnians," said Gudrun.

"Why not?" Sacharissa wanted to know.

"Because it isn't true," said William.

"But it is true," said Sacharissa as if she could barely believe her ears.

"No, they don't say: OMINIANS STEAL BABIES TO SACRIFICE!" he said.

"Yes, they do!" Sacharissa was indignant.

"No," he corrected, "what they say is: OMINIANS STEAL BABIES TO SACRIFICE! Mrs. Somebodyorother told _The Post_ ," there's a difference.

"They just make that up, you know that."

"Do you have a source," William asked

"What!?" she almost yelled, "you can read, can't you? And no one is going to go on the record about this, they're too scared."

"In which case," Selene explained, "they can just claim that they are not responsible for how people interpret their words."

"As if anyone would be stupid enough to believe that," Sacharissa snorted.

"Vell," said Otto, "if zhey are stupid enough to read zee zings in zee first place…"

"-ing technicality," she said, dismissively1, "so what are we going to do?"

"What we always do," said William, "report the truth."

"Nothing, in other words," she sniffed.

"We follow the rules," he said simply.

"Why should we? They don't."

"And that's the difference between them and us," said William, loftily.

"Oh, for gods' sakes," she haaarrumphed. "I'm with you Gudrun," she said, turning to the dwarf, "what do you make of that explanation?"

"-ing rubbish!2" Gudrun affirmed.

"Would you like to go for a drink some time?"

"I don't drink," said Gudrun, "I only quaff."

"In that case would you care to quaff some wine with me, Ms. Gustaffsdottir?"

"I think I would very much enjoy that, Ms. Cripslock," said Gudrun with a smile, and there was nothing sweet about this one.

"Perhaps we could gossip about setting-up our own paper," said Sacharissa, archly.

" _The Women's Own_?" Gudrun suggested.

"Mmmm, we'll have to work on that, I think. El Tinto at eight?" she suggested.

"It's a date."

"Your dwarf's in the mail," Sacharissa said to William as she headed up the stairs.

"You've left your flounce behind," he called after her, but he'd lost this particular round, and he knew it.

 **Chapter 35**

Harry's plan had been perfect from the moment he'd formed it. The forming itself had taken about ten seconds and he was hoping to bring in the implementation phase in in under half that time. A tiny, helpless girl protected by an almost equally tiny Watchman who couldn't be farther away from being helpless even if they'd chained her up, tied her in a sack and chucked her in the Ankh. Vetinari had thought it was a good idea, Commander Carrot had thought it was a good idea and, most tellingly of all, even Sally had thought it was a good idea, and approval in that quarter was hard-won indeed. It had never occurred to him that Lucy might not think it was a good idea too.

"I don't think that's a good idea, sir," she said when he'd outlined The Plan, as he'd now taken to capitalising it.

"And why would that be, Acting Constable?" he asked, emphasising as he did so that this was not going to be a conversation between equals.

"I'm not good with children," she said, simply. He waited, waited a bit longer, and then arched an eyebrow in a way that only a vampire can, and only another vampire can full appreciate.

"Sorry. I'm not good with children, sir" she corrected herself. This was clearly something they were going to have to work on. Taking orders was not something that came naturally to vampires. Giving, on the other hand…

Now, the extent to which Lucy could be said to have been 'good with people' was up for debate: she was certainly good at enticing them into her lair, but it would be difficult to argue that what happened to them there could be described as 'good for them'.

"I'm afraid that in this job you are going to have to get used to dealing with people, Acting Constable," nothing wrong with over-emphasis.

"Oh, I appreciate that, sir" Lucy affirmed, "however I think it best that I be kept away from children."

Harry wasn't aware that in her long history she'd treated children any better or worse than she'd treated anyone else, unless she was doing that weird thing of treating children as if they were 'different'. To Harry's mind children were just people: generally smaller, though not always, generally, though not always, more ignorant, but on the whole no different from any other people. There were good ones and bad ones, interesting ones and dull ones, beautiful ones and ugly ones… but they were all still people. Harry realised that he might be prejudiced on this subject: vampire children could read and write by the time of their first birthday, construct detailed arguments by two and rip a human's head off before they were three; it was hard to view them as being different from adults. It wasn't the same for other races and species, though. For humans, for example, children could be any one of three things: incapable of doing anything wrong, incapable of doing anything right or a complete mystery; in any case, not normal. Harry was having none of it:

"It's an order, Acting Constable."

"In that case, yes sir, of course, sir," said Lucy jumping to attention and saluting.

You've just got to love the chain-of-command, thought Harry.

And so it was _agreed_ , as Lucy never needed sleep she would protect the little girl twenty-two hours a day, eight days a week. It was also good, thought Harry –with an eye to his budget- that Lucy wouldn't need a uniform, what with her being under the sheets and all. He knew it was good that The Watch now had more volunteers that it had stuff for them to wear, but a Watchman out of uniform annoyed his vampirish needed for neatness 1 unless, as in this case, the Watchman was under the sheets. So, now all that remained was to convince the Seamstresses that this was good idea also. Oh, and find out what the child was called, he supposed.

"Right then," he said, "let's go."

"Yes, sir," said Lucy, saluting with rather more sass than Harry really cared for.

When they arrived at the mansion in Widdershins Park he was surprised that there was no guard on the gate; there were a great many nasty men who didn't like Seamstresses after all –for a number of different reasons. Still, the reputation of the Agony Aunts should have been enough to discourage anyone who was even on nodding acquaintance with sanity, and they knew their own business, after all.

He noticed the women in the grounds –both old and young- who were enjoying the sunshine and marvelled at the wealth of the Guild. The Seamstresses took care of their members in a way that made those of other guilds very envious but it could only do it because it was rich. A lot of the money came from ladies who had become courtesans to kings, but remembered their roots. More still had come from ladies who, through their acting and dancing, had acquired rich –often elderly- husbands and, upon their demise, rather large fortunes. They too had not forgotten their roots. But most of the guild's money came from ordinary members who made contributions in their own self-interest.

There had once been people called wimps who would take most, if not all, of a seamstress's income under the pretence of offering them _protection_. When the Agony Aunts began to give them protection –especially from wimps- for nothing at all many of them had decided to invest some of their now spare income in a pension plan, the Guild. Some of them simply gave money to the Guild because they were used to giving their hard money away to someone who hadn't earned it. They were often amazed that they actually got something in return.

They were met at the door by a slender young woman. She couldn't have weighed very much but Harry and Lucy's expert eyes could tell that she could punch at least three or four times above her weight. An Agony Aunt in training, they both assumed.

"Good afternoon, isn't it?" said the Agony Neice, "my name's Aderyn."

Harry thought about this for a second.

"Yes, I suppose it is a good afternoon, isn't it?"

"Look you, we'll have none of that," Aderyn admonished, "have you got an appointment?"

"Yes," said Harry, "at one o'clock, with Madame Fifi."

"Ah, you'll be the people from The Watch then, isn't it?"

Harry was about to reply sarkilly when Lucy pinched him, insubordinately. Hubber Bears could chew granite; it was said that there were luminous sea-creatures at the bottom of the Rim Ocean that could bite through steel, but nothing could pinch like a vampire.

"YESS!" he managed.

"Good, then follow me."

She led them through long wide corridors and large, airy rooms that were strangely cool, given how hot it was outside.

"Something dwarfish do you think?" Harry asked Lucy.

"More my friend Leonardo, I would have thought," she replied.

Leonardo of Quirm had once been Architect and Artificer in Chief to Lucy's father, the Duke, before Vetinari had managed to get his hands on him.

"It's both, actually," Aderyn clarified, "there's clever, isn't it?"

The vampires both agreed that there, indeed, was clever.

Eventually they arrived at Madame Fifi's office and, after a knock, were admitted into her presence. Harry, and especially Lucy, were used to grand ladies and were not easily impressed but Madame Fifi was very impressive. Harry thought her makeup was so expertly applied that it completely hid how old she was. Lucy, more astutely, could see that the makeup actually made her look older than she would have appeared without it, because she thought she recognised her, and from a very, very long time ago. She curtsied, which Harry thought rather suspicious. He'd bowed, of course, but female vampires didn't often curtsy. He'd only ever seen Sally curtsy twice: to Vimes –and that had been a bit of a joke, even though he was a duke- and to Vetinari. He was going to have to ask about this. In the meantime there was the lady in question herself. On either side of her stood two women who were quite obviously Agony Aunts, and certainly no longer trainees. One was very large and the other very small but, to the expert eye, it was clear that both were equally dangerous. Of course either Harry or Lucy could have taken both of them, but it wouldn't have been easy. In any case, the most dangerous of the three was the one sitting between them. In fact she was probably the most dangerous person in the room.

"Bonjour, mes jeunes," said Madame Fifi, "you are the officers of the leur, non?"

There was no way on the Disc either of them was buying that accent but their rigid self-control meant neither of them laughed out loud.

"That's correct, ma'am," said Harry

"And you 'ave come to protect la petite fille?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied.

"Bon. But first I wish you to meet two ozer young ladies, Aderyn!"

"Yes, madame?"

"Fetch les sorcières."

"Yes madame," she replied and went to find Tiffany and Agnes.

All morning, while Moo played in the gardens, under guard, they had been in their room trying to decide what their next move should be, to no great purpose.

"So what should our next move be?" Agnes had asked.

"I've no idea," Tiffany had replied, "I'm surprised we got this far."

"Oh, nothing like a positive attitude, is there?" Agnes had snorted.

"I have nothing like a positive attitude," Tiffany had affirmed  
"I'd noticed."

In the end they'd decided that what they lacked more than anything was information and therefore, while Moo could safely be left in the care of the guild, they were going to take to the streets, as it were, and find out what was really happening.

"By the way, I have a friend in The Watch," Agnes offered.

"Really," said Tiffany, "you've never mentioned that."

"Well, he's more a _friend of a friend_ ," Agnes admitted.

"Which friend?" Tiffany wanted to know.

"Damn," said Agnes.

"Have you forgotten something?"

"No, I mean the Omnian missionary that I've become friendly with," she clarified.

"A bit too friendly some would say."

"Oh would they, indeed!?" snarled Agnes, signalling to her high horse that she needed to mount.

"Not me, of course!" Tiffany wanted to clarify, holding her hands up in front of her.

"I should hope not!" Agnes snarled. "His full name is Damn the Infidel if He will not Forgive."

"They really have a way with words, don't they?" observed Tiffany.

"Anyway, he said he had a friend in The Watch called Smite and he'd let him know I was coming. Maybe I should speak to him first; he should know what's going on, after all."

"Good idea," Tiffany agreed, "then we can…"

Just then Aderyn arrived with what she believed was bad news.

"The mistress wants to see you," she announced.

"Oh, good," they agreed, now that they had at least the beginnings of a plan.

"But she's got some Watchmen with her," she warned them.

"Oh, good," they chorused, which made her look rather unhappy.

Aderyn was a Novice and therefore not fully aware of the nature of the relationship between the Seamstresses and The Watch. Sure, citizens could sometimes be swept away by moral panics about all the _shamelessness on the street_ s and they'd then complain about it to The Watch, who'd ignore them. Of course this wasn't what The Watch pretended it was doing and it had got so good at pretending that a great many people were taken in by it, including Aderyn, it appeared. In fact seamstresses and Watchmen got on rather well; a bit too well, some nurses thought.

In Madame Fifi's office everyone was cordially introduced and there were smiles and handshakes and a bit of curtseying. Everything was _terribly_ friendly. Meanwhile all that was going on inside the witches' heads was:

"THEY'RE VAMPIRES, THEY'RE VAMPIRES, THEY'RE VAMPIRES! CAN'T YOU SEE THEY'RE VAMPIRES!?"

Lucy was the only one who noticed their carefully concealed discomfort.

"Oh, we're vampires, by the way" she said, "but _good vampires_."

"Aye," snarled Janet, possibly in agreement, "good yins."

"Zere are good and bad in effreyone," chuckled Madame Fifi, "even seamstresses and ouitches."

Neither of the _ouitches_ was entirely convinced but they also thought that if there really was such a thing as a _good vampire_ then there was no one you'd rather have protecting you.

"Is there an officer in The Watch called Smite?" Agnes asked to break the tension.

"There is indeed," said Harry, "a very fine officer. Currently in hospital."

"Oh, gods, what happened?" gasped Agnes.

"It's alright," Harry reassured her, "he's recovering well, but he was badly injured in the last _trouble,_ which is what we need to protect the little girl from."

"Perhaps we should ask Moo what she thinks," Tiffany suggested.

"Good idea," said Madame Fifi, "a lady always likes to be asked. Ouere is la petite?"

"She's with Blodwyn," said Agnes.

"And where is Blodwyn?" asked Madame Fifi.

"She's on gate duty," said Aderyn.

"Er, there's no one on the gate," said Harry.

There was a brief silence, then a look flashed around the room, Tiffany went white and Agnes fainted.

 **Chapter 36**

The time had come, Patrick thought, to think of many things: of hate and danger what to say; to friends and to the girlfriend, about getting far away? His time in the Secret Service had been to his advantage, he had a way of turning things in that direction, but his time was nearly up, though The Watch might not know that yet. He still didn't really know what was going on, but he was sure he knew a great deal more than anyone else did, he also knew that it stank worse than two-day-old nappies,1 and that he didn't want to be around when that shit caught fire.

He wasn't easily frightened, in fact Bliss had said she doubted that he was any longer capable of 'physical fear', but this was scaring the excrement out of him. The sheer amount of hate was astonishing, scarcely believable when you considered what it was directed at. In a vast city like Ankh-Morpork he couldn't see how so much venom could be directed towards such a small and, as far as he could see, harmless community. It made no sense and that's what really gave him the trembles.

At The Guild school some lessons had interested him more than others: he'd hardly been able to stay awake in Law (contracts), though he'd been very interested in both Chemistry (poisoning) and Physics (ballistics) what had really fascinated him was Logic. For some boys logic had seemed to be of no more practical use than Music, which they also all had to learn as part of rounding them out as 'gentlemen'. They all came to see that being able to structure a cogent argument was not merely a useful but an essential skill. Though, admittedly, not as indispensable as being able to spot the flaws in the arguments made by others. However, there were a few boys, including Patrick, whom Dr. Al-Mawt, the dark unfathomable professor from Betrek, had taken under the wings of his cloak and introduced to what the Tsortians called _dilectio sapientiae_.

Ethics was generally taught as part of Law, its first principal being that once a contract had been agreed it had to be fulfilled, whatever the danger to the _agent of the contract,_ as the currently popular euphemism would have it. Of course it would take a special kind of insanity to renege on a bargain you'd struck with the Guild of Assassins, however, most people were surprised to discover that the Assassins never went back on their side of the bargain either. Unlike the Guild of Lenders, for example, but then even the Thieves Guild held itself to higher standard than that.

That could be interesting enough, Patrick had thought, especially compared to the interminable talk of endless clauses that constituted the rest of Contracts. What Dr. Al-Mawt introduced the select few to was something called _moral philosophy_ and Patrick had never heard the like of it.

According to the learnèd doctor there was a difference between _right and wrong_ on the one hand and _good and evil_ on the other and it seemed that the latter applied even to the gods, whatever They might say to the contrary. This was what was interfering with his packing. It was obviously _wrong_ for him to stay in the city with all that was going on and _right_ for him to get as far away as possible before the slow-burning fuse that had been fizzing away these past months finally reached the thing that was waiting for them all. On the other hand, he thought… 'No, there is no _other hand_!' he almost said out loud as he balled another pair of socks and thrust them into his rucksack. There was no point to either right and wrong or good and evil if he were dead. On the other hand there was Smite who was, almost in spite of himself, his friend. But he could make other friends in his new place. And there was Bliss, whom he loved. On the other hand, he thought, stuffing unfolded underwear into the bag, she didn't love him back, and that was hardly fair…

It was no use. Good and evil and Dr. Al-Mawt got the better of him and he upended his bag onto his bed. What, he wondered, would be the point of going somewhere else if he left himself behind? Smite was laid up in hospital unable to take care of himself, Bliss was too busy taking care of others to even think about herself. They needed him and if he was not prepared to protect them then he was no better than a Lender.

Downstairs in the bar Kate was still up and having a nightcap. She seemed surprised to see him.

"I thought you were leaving," she said.

"So did I," he replied, "where are Bruise and Shearer?"

"Where do you think, what with it being the end of the world and all. Would you like a drink," she asked, "on the house?"

"You have no idea."

"Wine I assume."

"Not tonight."

"That bad, eh?" she asked, pouring him a large whisky.

"I refer you to my previous answer."

"Glen Deoch," she said, filling the glass to the top, "from the far off Isle of Drookit."

"Slàinte," he said, taking a large mouthful that made his eyeballs swirl.

"To your health too, good sir," said Kate, draining her small sherry and getting a whisky-glass up for herself.

"What changed your mind?" she asked, pouring a decent measure into her glass and refilling his."

"The nature of good and evil," he said, pompously.

"I didn't think Assassins gave much thought to that."

"You knew?" he asked, only mildly surprised.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" she asked.

"Kate," he replied, "a woman farther from being stupid I can't imagine."

"There you go; the easy, casual compliment. Too posh, too charming, too clever, too handsome and too good with his fists, I'm surprised that you fool anyone."

"I'll work on it."

"I would, if I were you, now that you're staying."

"Did you really think I might leave?"

"No," she conceded, "I've seen you with your mate and I've heard you talk about your girl; I knew there was no way you'd abandon them. You'd rather it cost you your life than your soul."

"Actually, I think for a lot of people it might be both. It's going to be very bad, isn't it?"

"Very, very, very, very bad," Kate confirmed, "are you sure you still want to stay?"

"Of course, I have a soul to save," he confirmed, "here's to you and yours, Katy," he added, raising his glass.

"May the road rise to meet you, Paddy!"

They clinked.

Smite kept trying to get out of bed and Blister kept pushing him back into it.

"I'm fine," he kept saying, struggling up.

"No, you're not," she kept insisting, shoving him back down.

This had been going on for some minutes when happened past.

"Ith thith a private game," he asked, "or can anyone join in?"

"Sorry, doctor," Blister apologised, "the patient refuses to listen to medical advice and wants to leave the hospital."

"Well," said , "in my opinion he ith well enough to be dithcharged."

"He's a Watchman and wants to go back to his duties."

"Yeth? Well he ithn't well enough to do that, tho perhapth we thould keep him in."

Smite tried to get up again and Dr. Igor pushed him back down again, gently, but with enough force to make it clear that getting out of bed was no longer an option worth pursuing.

"Jutht for a little while."

"Thank you, doctor," said Blister, sticking her tongue out at Smite.

"Not at all," said Dr. Igor, "I thall now leave you to your fun ath I have roundth to do."

"See!?" said Blister, when the doctor had gone.

"B, I just want to do my duty," said Smite plaintively.

Oh, she wasn't falling for that one. The easiest way to get round virtually any Omnian was to appeal to their sense of duty. Blister was a nurse, more even than she was a daughter and far more than she was a Follower of Brutha. She knew that during the previous emergency she would have stayed at her post and cared for her patients even if the mob had been charging down her ward. Smite wanted to do his duty, like any good cop, and like any good nurse it was her duty not to let him.

"Smitey," she said, using a nickname from when they were kids, "your duty is to get well enough to actually do your duty properly, and you're not well enough yet."

She rather liked this argument, it was compelling, and it certainly convinced Smite.

"Ok, he conceded," pulling his covers up, "but not a moment longer."

"Agreed," she conceded and they shook hands. Then she went and washed hers, thoroughly, doctor's orders. Dr. Igor in Diseaseology had told her about 'invithible little thquirming thingth that can thpread thickneth' and she wasn't taking any chances.

If it was hard to stop some people doing their duty, it was very difficult to get other people to do theirs. Patrick was leaving. He didn't know exactly where he was going yet –he was considering several options but it was going to be somewhere far, far away from Ankh-Morpork, that was for sure, or so he said. Mind you he was a liar, a witty, charming and rascally liar, but a liar nonetheless, so maybe he was just going to hide out somewhere nearby until The Trouble went away. Who could say? Certainly not her, that was for sure.

Oh, he'd asked her to come with him, to Genua, of all places: the place he talked about all the time and made sound so mysterious and so wonderful –and which was obviously so tasty- but she hadn't been remotely tempted. As she'd pointed out to him they had never really been anything more than friends. That whole asking her to marry him thing had just been a joke, surely?

But, as she tidied up and did her last bed-check before the dayshift took over, she decided to admit that she was lying to herself. Smite was her friend, Lucy was her friend, Dr. Igor in Cryingology was her friend… Patrick was not, had never been and could not possibly be, her friend. He was the love of life.

Dr. Igor had tried to reassure her that all her moping and blubbing were just symptoms of what he called Endocrying.

"Yeth, the wide eyeth, the flutheth, the tearth, the thkipping heart… are all perfectly normal, you'll get over it."

No, she thought, she wouldn't and she wasn't even going to try. She was going to become a Sister of Kindness. She would renounce men and good wine and fine food and all other pleasures of the flesh while she dedicated her life to the service of others and the cultivation of her soul. As she walked miserably the short distance to the Nurses Home, eyes downcast, she wished it were raining, to match her mood. Mind you, at the moment, so did everyone else in the city. There hadn't been a spot in Om knew how long: everything was drying-up, like her heart, and the heat was becoming more oppressive by the day. She looked up as she reached the bottom of the stairs and saw…Patrick.

He was standing next to Lignite, the door-guard. The troll guards weren't supposed to let any men anywhere near the entrance to Nurses' Home, but Lignite was, unlike the rest of them, a big softie and a sucker for a throb story.

Patrick had a strange smile on his face –wry, regretful, shy, wistful…- and a box under his arm, covered in pictures of flowers, which she was sure contained the finest chocolates ever made. 1

"We need to talk," he said.

"No, we don't," she replied, curtly.

"Yes, we do," he said emphatically, "and we need to do so now!"

"No," she was equally vehement, "we really don't!"

"I have a bottle of wine from Petrus' Castle," he offered.

Petrus had been an Ephebian king noted for his love of luxury and his contempt for the poor. When the poor decided they'd had enough of him, and being treated like that, they rose up, overthrew him and established what the called a Ftochocracy. The idea of the poor ruling themselves was so ridiculous that the rulers of all the surrounding countries laughed. When it turned out that the poor of Ephebe were actually quite good at it then they didn't find it quite so funny, especially when the poor in their own countries started getting ideas above their pay grades.

Meanwhile, Petrus fled to Genua, where everyone loved luxury as much as he did and took as many of his luxuries with him as he could. The legend was that anything that had belonged Petrus must be the finest in the world. As Blister was about to renounce all pleasure she thought she really ought to do so with a flourish. The feast before the famine, as it were.

"Half-and-hour," she said.

He crooked his arm, she put hers through it and he led her away.

"You two luv burds av fun," Lignite rumbled from behind them, with a huge smile spreading, slowly across his face.

"What do you think?" asked Patrick.

They were sitting in one of the booths in The Duck and Blister had just taken her second taste of the wine.

"It's good," she said.

"GOOD!?" he exclaimed.

"Alright," she conceded, "it's very good. Very, very, very good."

She let the wine take its full effect and the taste to take possession of her nose and mouth.

"Actually, it's wonderful," she admitted.

"Isn't it just," he agreed.

"How much did it cost?" she asked.

"There you go again," he admonished, "confusing price and worth."

"How much?" she insisted

"Four thousand dollars," he admitted.

"What!" she screamed, "are you insane!?"

"Good, though, isn't it?" he shrugged.

"Marvellous," she agreed, "how much is a bottle of Devil's Cellar?"

"About five dollars."

She looked at him in a way that suggested that she could hardly begin to even number her levels of incomprehension.

"This is much better, maybe ten times better, but it isn't a thousand times better; nothing could be."

"Insane, isn't it?" he laughed.

"Patrick," she said, in an exasperated voice, "why am I here?"

"Only Om can say," he shrugged, with a smile.

"Don't try to be clever," she snapped.

"I can't help it," he said, "I am clever."

"Eerrgh!" she shrieked.

"Ok, listen, Bliss…"

"Don't call me that."

"…the problems of two little people don't amount to a pile of peas on this crazy Disc. I'm no good at being noble but I know that if I leave now I'll regret it, maybe not today; maybe not tomorrow but soon and for the rest of my life."

"You're staying?"

"For as long as you're here, then I'm going to be here, and I'm going to do my duty, by you, by the City and by myself. On one condition."

"Which is?" asked Blister, she knew there had to be a catch.

"That when this is over, if we're still alive, you'll come with me to Genua and be my bride."

"Um, actually," she said, after a brief pause, "I think can promise you that, my prince." She felt her lip beginning to tremble.

He raised his glass and she raised hers in reply.

"Here's looking at you, kid," he smiled.

"Don't look at me that way."

"This could be the start of beautiful relationship," he concluded.

"What do you mean _the start_?" she wanted to know.

 **Chapter 37**

Katy couldn't remember having seen so many carriages around the Hall before -game birds and other defenceless animals were certainly going to have a rough old time of it this weekend, she'd thought- and wondered what the special occasion might be. How many horrible things could there be to celebrate, after all?

It was nearly dinner-time and Katy dearly hoped she would be dining in the servants' hall rather than with the toffs. Lord Bothermore generally preferred to dine alone –if dining it could be called- and Katy ate below stairs. When he had guests she was required to be on hand in case he needed her and she found that eating with people who were above her station –or who even thought that way- a bit creepy and actually rather yucky. On the other hand, she got on rather well with virtually all of the servants; well, not Frau Strohdachdeckerin, of course, but then the Housekeeper didn't think of herself as being a servant at all, whereas Katy did.

She'd actually found this rather odd as her experience of the _real_ aristocracy was altogether different. The Duke and Duchess of Ankh-Morpork, Sir Samuel and Lady Sybil were a delight –everyone said so- but they were an exceptional couple. It was said that the roots of Sergeant von Humpeding's family-tree went all the way down to the shell of Great A'Tuin, but she was a vampire. Yet it wasn't these exceptions to the rule she was thinking of but rather the rule of the rulers themselves; what the Genuans called _noblesse oblige_.

When she'd worked for _Tittler_ she'd interviewed –or chatted with, as they'd insisted- a great many nobles and, with a few exceptions, they'd all behaved rather nobly. They'd been kind and generous, witty, charming, modest, self-deprecatory and fairly interesting. In fact one of them, a beautiful if rather effete blue-eyed, blonde hunk called Viscount Sebastian Algernon Randolph Aloysius Fortescue Eldersombe Felligham-Bartley and Pugh, –who Katy thought sounded like a legal firm- claimed to have fallen in love with her. He'd actually quite swept her off her feet, until she'd fallen on her arse and come to her senses. She still thought of him fondly. The aristocrats who came to Bothermore Hall weren't like that.

Oh, it wasn't that they weren't nobles –some of them had names that were pages long and ancestors who were kings back when everyone still dragged their knuckles- it was just that they weren't very, well, noble. The exception was Lord John Marbury, Lord Bothermore's _special advisor_.

Katy had often wondered why someone has clever, pleasant and talented as Kelvin Side worked for Lord Bothermore; she supposed it was for the same reason she did, the money. But that couldn't possibly apply to Lord John, for he was rich beyond the dreams of Petrus. He was also tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, brave, dashing, funny and brighter than a flash of lightning. He was, furthermore, good to the poor, kind to the sick and polite and generous to servants. Quite why he wanted to have anything to do with Lord Bothermore was beyond her understanding, as he stood out from all the others around him like a rabbit with antlers. When he winked at house and parlour maids, as he often did, they would sometimes faint. Of course when he did it to her she just got bees in her belly and felt a bit light-headed. No comparison.

The Reception Hall was crowded. Along with the usual ignobles there were the newspaper editors: Kelvin Side and his brother Bridge from _The Tribune and The Post,_ respectively, plus Ozzy Charles of _The Chronicle_ and Ozzy McMurdo of _The Torch._ These two were not related, though they did both come from Fourecks. In addition there were those creepy little men who kept hanging round the offices of _The Post_ : Mr. Trilby from the Small-businessman's Association, Mr. Garage from the Concerned Citizens' Committee and Mr. Bleany from the Family Values Alliance. And she could see Frau Strohdachdeckerin lurking in the shadows, as always.

Lord Bothermore ignored them all and made straight for the tall upright figure whose fierce countenance made it quite clear that he considered himself the most important man in the room, women, needless to say, didn't enter into his calculations. Goodman Sax, the Prime Manager of the Guild of Lenders despised anyone who was poorer than he was –which was virtually everyone- and could barely tolerate people, like Lord Bothermore, who were richer. The only person he seemed to have any respect for at all was Lord Marbury. The feeling was not reciprocated. When Marbury could even be bothered to acknowledge his presence he made no secret of the fact that he found him _a contemptible oaf._

And then there was Lord John himself, ignoring everyone –including Bothermore and Sax- he was striding directly towards Rose and her.

"Katy, my dear, how marvellous see you," he chuckled, taking her hand as he bowed and kissing it. She blushed and curtsied. "And Rose, beautiful as ever." Rose also blushed, deeper, and curtsied, lower.

"Easily the two more beautiful women in the room," he continued and they both giggled. Katy hated herself for it but could help it. For an aristocrat to even acknowledge the existence of servants was rare; for one to behave graciously towards them was almost unheard of.

"I apologise for the paucity of my compliment, ladies, do forgive me," he went on, looking around the room. "Ghastly, isn't it?"

"Yes, my lord," said Katy, "I mean no, my lord, I mean…" Katy blushed again, this time because she was flustered.

"Oh, don't worry," Lord Marbury laughed, "I sha'n't give you away."

Katy had heard Lord John laugh many times before. Sometimes he laughed because he found something funny, but he also often laughed at people –who no doubt deserved it- derisively, mockingly; even cruelly. This wasn't like that; this was laughter for its own sake, the way a child laughs.

"I was hoping you might be my dinner companion this evening, but alas…"

Katy was far more disappointed than him, though not in the least surprised, and then her face fell as she saw Bothermore and Sax making their way towards them. Lord Marbury noticed her change of expression.

"Might I surmise from your doleful countenance that the famed double-act, Boastful and Bloated, are approaching?"

Katy gave him the tiniest of nods.

"Fear not, fair ladies," he said, "gallantry dictates that I save you from their presence. Though I imperil my soul every time I speak to them, _la bêtise n'est pas mon fort_ , I go!"

With that he span round and greeted the two men with completely fake, but entirely convincing, bonhomie, while Katy and Rose scurried off to their room.

As Lord Bothermore had decided that he didn't need Katy that evening she was happy that she'd be allowed to eat in the servants' hall while Frau Strohdachdeckerin would take her place in the Grand Dining Hall. Of course, as everyone would be working on dinner for the guests then their own dinner was going to be a very late one, still, the compensation was that there would be beer and cider and even wine.

As Rose was serving dinner Katy had decided to help in the kitchen, chopping and washing-up and such like. The other servants knew that she didn't have to do this, and therefore liked her all the more, especially as she didn't act as if she were doing them a favour. Mr. Bridges had even decided to put aside a _special little something_ for she and Rose to share as a thank you.

Servants Tea had been convivial as always but, because of the booze, even more fun than usual. At the end they'd all been a little squiffy. However, after their _special little something_ , she and Rose had been more wobbly than tipsy and had therefore hardly talked at all when they fell into bed and, almost immediately, fell asleep.

When Katy woke-up a bit later, because she was too hot, she thought the girl lying next to her was Sacharissa. She often had this funny feeling when waking and was always disappointed. Still, Rose was her very good friend and she was talking to herself again. Well, "talking" was something of an exaggeration, as she never opened her mouth even "mumbling in her sleep" would have been pushing it. Still, Rose was clearly having some sort of argument inside her head and it was a very heated one, if all the thrashing about was anything to go by. Katy gave her a cuddle to calm her down. This always seemed to work, without ever waking her up, and she was soon snoring softly.

As her head still felt "a bit funny" Katy decided to go for a walk. She slipped out of bed and took off her ankle bells. After all, as she was going to be creeping around the castle in the dark she might as well do it as an under the sheets reporter cum spy, so she wouldn't want anyone to hear her.

She eased the door open and peeped out; there was no one in the corridor, but given that it must have been after two in the morning this wasn't surprising. There'd be guards around of course, but they would mostly be outside or on the main doors; mind you, she'd noticed that there were an awful lot more of them about this time than there usually were. She closed the door gently behind her and began to tip-toe down the corridor. She always tip-toed when she had had bare feet and had been doing so since she was a little girl, and she wasn't alone in this; so did her sisters and her mum, and Rose and all the other servant girls, and Sacharissa for that matter. She wondered if they did this as children to practice for wearing high-heels, though she thought it more likely that they did it so that no one would notice them.

In the winters1 the corridors of Bothermore Hall were draughty and freezing; there were no draughts now –there probably wasn't a breeze to be had this side of Lancre- but the hallways were still wonderfully cool, especially as she was only wearing a thin nightdress, and she was enjoying it so much that it took her a while to notice the smell of tobacco smoke, fresh tobacco smoke. She had a keen sense of smell, as most women do, and it was easy to tell fresh from stale, especially as here there seemed to be an awful lot of it, so she decided to follow it. Soon she could see light under the door that was the obvious source of the smell and could hear voices from the room beyond. She quickly checked around her. If anyone should chance upon her she planned to say that she'd been sleep-walking. This would be far less convincing if she were caught peeping through a keyhole. When she was sure the halls were clear she got down on her knees and had a look.

All the notables were there, from the high –Mr. Sax- to the low –Mr. Trilby- and including a number of minor aristocrats in between. Katy had expected to see Lord Bothermore holding forth, but instead it was Lord Marbury who was commanding their attention. She couldn't hear clearly what he was saying –even though he was almost shouting- until she put her ear to the keyhole rather than her eye.

"…idiots, half-wits, imbeciles the lot of you," he raged, "about as good at your jobs as Trilby's friend Carpenter. Couldn't find hay in a bloody haystack with a dozen helpers and a hay-detector! I have had quite enough of this cretinocracy, thank you very much and goodnight. I need a drink"

She heard a door slammed and quickly checked to make sure Lord John had left before she went back to listening. Good for him, she thought. Now it was Goodman Sax's turn to speak:

"I utterly believe that he is wrong," he said. He had a ridiculously posh voice. It was far more posh than that of any aristocrat, thought Katy, and therefore obviously false.

"You are all doing splendid jobs…" he continued, until Kelvin Side interrupted.

"I don't think he meant just us, Mr. Sax."

"How dare you!?" Sax spluttered.

"I agree with Goodman and not with John," Lord Bothermore announced, ignoring the fact that "the lot of you" clearly included him too, "here is what we are going to do…"

Over the next half-an-hour he outlined how each of them was going to increase the hate campaign against Omnians and do all they could to make their lives even more miserable. They were each assigned rôles and given tasks that they must immediately start to achieve.

As the meeting started to break-up Katy ran back to her room feeling both sick and dizzy, and it was nothing to do with what she'd been drinking the previous night. When she got there Rose was mumbling again so she immediately got under the cover and gave her a big hug, though this time it was as much to comfort herself as her bedmate. And then she began to have a fierce argument with herself inside her own head. The end of result of it was that she knew she was going to have to, by some means, get this information to Sacharissa, though she had no idea how.

When the imp went off at five she was still wide awake, and not in the least bit tired. After breakfast, she and Rose went their separate ways: Rose to work and Katy to wander about in a daze. Lord Bothermore, it seemed, was indisposed, so she didn't even have his dreary inanities to take her mind off what she'd heard through the keyhole. She couldn't even try to imagine why all those nasty people wanted to encourage viciousness against Omnians, or for that matter why they hated the Omnians so much themselves. She'd heard any number of justifications, but none of them seemed to make any sense, often not even to the people who were giving them.

She'd once heard Lord Bothermore tell Lord Marbury that it was because of the excessive interest that Omnian's charged when they leant money to struggling businessmen.

"Oh, don't be and arse, Horace," Lord John had scoffed1, "Omnian's don't lend money at interest, –excessive or otherwise- usury is a sin before Om. Now, your good friend Sax on the other hand…"

But Lord Bothermore wasn't listening and had just blustered off.

She had to get the news out of what they were planning but she couldn't see how on The Disc she was going to do it. There was a clacks tower nearby, but they would never accept a message of the length she wanted to send, and even if they did she wouldn't have been able to afford it. There wouldn't be another mail-coach passing for at least a week, but all the conspirators were leaving the next day so would have started their campaign long before her message arrived. The situation seemed hopeless, but then the good luck fairy had tapped her on the shoulder, literally, with her wand.

Of course Katy believed in fairies, just like everyone else did, and had actually seen a few, but this was the first time she'd encountered Viel Glück in her little ballet dress.

"Ask her about her boyfriend," she said, fluttering her wings.

"What!?" Katy had asked, astonished.

"Ask Rose what her boyfriend does for a living," said Viel and vanished in a twinkle.

Katy had done as she was told and discovered that Bob Jim, the boy who she'd sometimes seen Rose chatting to outside the kitchen doors, was a messenger boy. Whenever a message was too private for the clacks and too urgent for the mail-coach then Bob Jim, or one of his fellows, would deliver it by express pony.

This was it, Katy realised. She sneaked into Lord Bothermore's office, wrote a detailed account of all she had heard that morning on a piece of his best official parchment, melted some wax on the fold and pressed his official seal into it. She then gave it to Rose, who gave it to Bob Jim, who she saw riding out with his letter-sack over his shoulder less than an hour later.

She'd addressed it: to Aspartame from Honeysuckle and requested it be delivered to El Tinto. Messenger boys were used to delivering strangely addressed letters to unusual places so she assumed that hers would pass unnoticed. She just hoped that it would arrive in time. She knew that Sacharissa would know what to do, as surely as she knew she would be listening at that same keyhole that night.

She'd gone for a walk while trying to make sense of all that she'd heard, but that hadn't worked. She'd then tried to sleep –she was probably going to be up all night again, after all. When that didn't work either she offered her services in the kitchen, where she spent the rest of the day helping the scullery-maids with all the washing-up from the night before and earning herself extra credits with the rest of the staff at the same time.

Lord Bothermore had decided that he could do without her services for that evening, for obvious reasons, she'd thought, and so she'd once again had tea in the servants' hall and had had, in spite of her preoccupations, another lovely time. When Mr. Bridges had offered her another _little something_ , to thank her for her help, she had given it to a blushing Rose to "help her sleep", earning her extra extra-credits. Of course she could easily have just given it to Rose when they were alone, but credits are credits, after all.

They'd all been able to head off to bed relatively early as, after the excesses of the previous night, none of the guests appeared to want to stay up too late. Once they were in bed Rose had insisted on sharing the _little something_ and Katy had agreed, though she made sure that Rose got the elf's share1, which was easy to do in the dark. They generally only lit their candle when Rose was telling ghost-stories. Katy loved Rose's ghost-stories, though she couldn't understand why as they gave her horrible nightmares.

When they had finished the drink they spooned-up up, with Katy at the back and she cuddled Rose really tightly until her deep, sonorous breathing confirmed that she was no longer _on this plane of existence_ , as the sermonizers would say, then she got out of bed and headed towards her destiny.

This night she couldn't smell any cigar smoke and wondered if she might be disappointed –the wrong word, she knew- by there being no meeting. When she turned into the corridor that contained _the meeting room_ , she could see light under the door –she couldn't imagine how many candles or lamps they must be burning- and as she drew closer she could hear voices, or rather one voice, as someone was clearly holding forth.

She'd hoped that it was Lord John once again berating the fools and when she peeped through the keyhole she saw that it was. When she put her ear to it, though, she wished that it weren't.

Oh, he was upbraiding the imbeciles again, for sure, but he wasn't ridiculing them for how much poison they were spreading about the poor Omnians, but how little. Katy felt sick. She'd respected Lord Marbury, admired him; even, in some small way, loved him. She couldn't understand how she could have been so wrong about him.1 All the others were now protesting that they were indeed being both vindictive and vicious but Lord Marbury was not to be placated.

"Enough!" he barked, "He is coming, He is coming soon and then we shall all be judged. You fools, can't you feel that!?"

Katy thought she could feel the silence pouring through the keyhole. After a moment or so Goodman Sax responded, in a voice that lacked all of its usual confidence:

"Yes, my lord, we can."

"Good," said Marbury, "then we can move on to more pressing matters. There is a child. It is currently residing in the House of Seamstresses in Widdershins Park. This child must not be in the city when He arrives."

"I have a spy inside that House," Lord Bothermore boasted.

"Yes, Horace, I know," sneered Marbury, "I have already set her in motion.

"The child she shall be brought here and kept in seclusion. No harm is to come to it until he decides what fate should become it…"

"It?" thought Katy, "I'm sure he knows the child's sex, and I'm almost sure she's a girl, yet he refers to her as 'it'. All the easier to kill her, I suppose."

She could hardly believe what she was listening to.

"Are you hearing everything clearly enough?" asked a cold, hideous voice behind her. She span round and looked up into the cold, glaring face of Frau Strohdachdeckerin.

 **Chapter 38**

A frantic and thorough search of the house and grounds revealed nothing. Everyone had been involved and nowhere had been neglected: women who could barely walk had climbed into attics; women who could hardly get out of bed had crawled into cellars while the more active had scoured every garden, tree and hedge. Yet neither skin nor bristle of either Blodwyn or Moo was to be found.

When they all realised it was hopeless they trooped back to Madame Fifi's office where Tiffany and Agnes knew they would have to humbly accept whatever punishment anyone might choose for them as it was all their faults. Shamefully, they knew that no one would blame them directly; there were lots of others around to share the guilt, after all. This made them both feel even more guilty, if that were possible. Actually, it turned out there was someone who blamed them both directly, and forcefully.

Standing on Madame Fifi's desk, much to her obvious chagrin, were two pictsies. One of them Tiffany recognised, it was Magnus Og, but the other, who turned out to be called Caber Callum hardly looked like a Nac Mac Feegle at all. He was easily twice the height of Magnus and as broad across the shoulder as Magnus was tall. In addition, he didn't have the normal pictsie physique. In spite of their incredible strength the Nac Mac Feegle were built like sticks, or ants. Callum, by contrast was all rippling muscle and flowing, blonde locks. He almost looked like a species on his own; apart from the glare of almost indescribable fury on his face that made him look virtually identical to Magnus.

"Whaur's the Bairn!?" Magnus demanded barely able to suppress his rage. This was a difficult enough thing for a pictsie at the best of times.

"If she's loast then it's aw yourz fault!"

As if Tiffany didn't know it was solely all her fault. Although Agnes believed it was actually solely all her fault, too.

"She's gone," Tiffany admitted, feeling the tears brimming up again. She'd been weeping solidly for the last hour and didn't know where all that water could be coming from.

"Never mind the greetin," cautioned Magnus, "yer no getting aff wi' this, hen. We'll fun her, dinae you worry aboot that, bit when we dae yous better say yer sorry."

"Yes, sir," said Tiffany, she thought it was the least they could do.

"And you?" he demanded, glaring at Agnes.

"Oh, yes sir," she said, miserably.

"Right well, we're awa," said Magnus, and with that they were gone.

There was another brief silence.

"I feel that zis iz our fault…" Madame Fifi began.

"Oh, no, ma'am," interrupted Tiffany and Agnes in unison, "it's all our fault for…"

"Naw, she's right," said Morag and Janet together, "it's oor blame fur…"

"For the moment," said Harry, putting his foot down, "can we forget whose fault it is and concentrate on getting the little girl back?" They all nodded.

"Good. Now, Lance Constable Gioconda and I have to get back to the Yard and I want you two to come with us," he said, pointing at Agnes and Tiffany.

"Yes, sir," they agreed, nodding. Neither of them had been in the habit of calling people "sir" but it seemed to be a very easy habit to pick up.

"In that case, ladies, we shall take our leave," said Harry, clicking his heels and bowing. He noticed that Lucy didn't the same, at the same time. She was a quick learner.

"Au revoir, officers," said Madame Fifi, "I wish you good chance."

Outside in the gardens Lucy pulled Harry aside.

"I'm not going back to the Yard," she said.

"Yes, you are," he insisted, "remember that 'taking orders' thing we talked about?"

"I think it's better if I go after Moo."

"How can you do that?" he wanted to know, "you don't even know what she looks like."

"Yes, I do," she said, arching one eyebrow, "I looked at the picture inside Tiffany's head, didn't you?"

"No," said Harry, "I can't only read thoughts, I can't see pictures."

"You're not a proper vampire, are you?"

"No, thank gods."

"What have they got to do with it?"

"Er, nothing, sorry. Anyway, Ok, so you're going on the hunt?"

"Poor choice of words for a vampire," she scolded, mildly.

"I'll have rather less sass from you in future, Lance Constable," he ordered, "So, you're going to find Moo. The Nac Mac Feegle have a start on you, of course."

"Yes, sir, sorry sir, and yes, they do have a start but not much of one."

"You do realise that they work as a network, don't you? They're not all in the same place: the end of their chain is probably ten miles away by now."

"I'll catch them up," she assured him.

"You can't turn into a lot of bats it the daylight, can you?" he wondered.

"No, I can't do that," she admitted, "but I can run fast, and I can fly at night."

"Very well, Lance Constable," he conceded, "do your duty, and good luck."

"Yes sir," she said, and disappeared as quickly as a Wee Free Man.

He now turned to the witches.

"As for you two," he said, "you follow me."

"Yes, sir," they said, and traipsed miserably after him. This "sir" thing was becoming a bit of a habit.

Before setting out in pursuit Lucy had made a quick detour to the witches' rooms to find something of Moo's. The Nac Mac Feegle already had her scent, of course, but she wasn't going to just follow them; though they were probably going in the right direction, she would soon outpace them. At least that was what she'd thought initially; now she wasn't so sure. For one thing, despite her previously boasted running speed, it had taken her a surprisingly long time to catch up with Magnus and Callum. Those little legs did turn remarkably quickly. The two Nac Mac Feegle had taken her overtaking them in good part and had, in fact, urged her on.

"Gaun yersel, hen!" Magnus had shouted.

"Git intae them, lassie," yelled Callum.

"Will do," she'd called behind her as she sped past. Again, despite their size, it was rather a long time before they were out of sight. Of course, as Harry had pointed out, the Nac Mac Feegle usually didn't operate as individuals, a bit like bees in that way,1 so Magnus and Callum had long since passed on all the necessary information to the next in line –Daft Dugald and Hamish the Bam- by a form of telepathy known as _ag èigheach_ long before they'd reached them. Dugald and Hamish had done the same to the next relay pair, they to the next and so on. The signal was being passed up the line faster even than their blurry little legs could carry them. The message hadn't yet reached the front of the long twisting column, so the head of it wasn't yet moving but, Lucy now realised, the whole thing would be moving long before she reached the front. Her earlier boasting had clearly been a form of what the Tsortians called _superbia_.

In the meantime, after a dour and suffocating walk through the streets, the witches had arrived at Pseudopolis Yard and been dumped in the waiting room, without ceremony, by Captain Mudd who had then gone off grumpily to report the bad news to Commander Carrot. The desk sergeant, a dwarf with wire bows in her beard, had asked if she could get them some biscuits and an incredibly handsome vampire had asked if they would like a cup of tea. They'd thanked them both profusely but they'd both declined both. Even Agnes didn't feel like eating or drinking. Actually, she felt like doing both, but didn't think she deserved it. They didn't know which was stranger: that The Watch seemed to be staffed largely by vampires or that vampires might offer to make you tea.

When she was sure they were alone and that no one was listening Tiffany turned to Agnes:

"You felt it, didn't you?" she asked.

"Yes," said Agnes.

"Strong, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Agnes

"Horrible, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Agnes.

"I've never felt anything like it, have you?"

"No," said Agnes.

"Do you actually have anything useful to contribute?" sniffed Tiifany.

"Listen, Aching, don't you get like that with me; you're the one asking all the closed questions. Yes, it's nasty and powerful and I wish I were a thousand miles from wherever it is, but I think that's why we're here."

"And we've lost Moo," said Tiffany, miserably, "we'll have to tell them."

"Don't you think they know? They're vampires, for gods' sakes!"

"I don't think they know everything," Tiffany ventured, and Agnes wasn't sure they did either. Just then Captain Mudd returned.

"Come with me, ladies," he said, brusquely, and led them through several corridors and up three flights of stairs to a door marked "Commander".

Tiffany had heard that the Commander of the Watch was a dwarf but the man sitting behind the desk in front of them must have been at least as tall sitting-down as she was standing up.

"Good afternoon, ladies," said the giant dwarf with close-cropped ginger hair, "we appear to have a small problem."

"No, sir," said Tiffany, accidentally curtsying, "we have a very large problem; a very, very large problem."

"We know," said Carrot.

"Respectfully, sir, I don't think you do."

"Enlighten us then," said Harry, scornfully.

"It's a spirit, an extremely powerful one; a god or a demon…"

Interchangeable to my mind, thought Harry.

"It's behind all the hatred!" Agnes interjected.

Carrot looked at Harry:

"It is as we thought," he said.

"So it would appear, sir," Harry said.

"Is it here now?" Carrot asked.

"No, sir," said Agnes, "but has been here, stirring everything up, and it's coming back."

"Again, much as we feared, isn't it, Captain?"

"Yes, sir," Harry agreed.

"There is another thing," said Tiffany, "the little girl, my ward, she is the key to defeating it."

"That is also the intelligence we have; we have people tracking her down now."

"So, do we," said Tiffany, defiantly.

"Good," said Carrot, "then we are on the same side. To formalise that you are both now seconded to the watch and shall be Acting Constables until further notice, is that understood?"

"Yes sir," they said together and curtsied.

"Watchmen don't curtsy," said Carrot, "they salute."

Tiffany and Agnes looked rather perplexed so Carrot looked to Harry, who demonstrated.

"Longest way up, shortest way down," said Harry.

"Have Sergeant von Humpeding swear them in and find them secure accommodation," Carrot ordered.

"Yes, sir," said Harry.

"And you two report here at six o'clock tomorrow to receive your orders, understood?"

"Yes, sir," said Tiffany and Agnes, saluting, correctly.

"Dismissed."

All three of them saluted again and then filed out of the office.

Sally had informed them that they would be staying at the Nurse's Home, as they might also be required to serve as Auxiliary Nurses. Everyone knew that a witch rivalled even an Igor in her knowledge of medicine. The only reason that none of them were nurses –or indeed doctors, if such a thing could be imagined- was that they were notoriously bad at taking orders. This was the primary reason that Carrot had insisted on their taking the oath, and Sally had duly sworn them in:

"I promise that I shall do my best

To do my duty to the city,

To serve The Patrician,

Help other people

And keep the Civic Law," they'd recited with both palms upraised in the traditional gesture of surrender to higher authority.

Then they'd gone to the hospital to visit Smite, so that Agnes could pass on Damn's regards. After that it was straight to the Nurses' Home where Basalt admitted them and Sally bade them farewell.

"Single beds or double?" asked the governess at reception.

"Don't mind," they said in unison.

They were each issued with a nightdress and led to their room. Once they'd changed out of their day clothes they lay on top of the bed for a while just thinking –it was too hot even to get under the sheet. Once they thought they'd thought about it for long enough they began talking, and that took up the rest of the night.

When they reported for duty in the morning Sergeant von Humpeding took them to the Omnian section known as the Egitto, which they both thought was a marked and very pleasant contrast to the rest of the city in that it was: neat, clean, quiet and orderly.

"Right," said Sally, "what I want you two to do for the next couple of hours is scout about the surrounding streets and see what you can find out."

"About what?" asked Tiffany.

"Anything," Sally replied, "see if you can detect any signs of this spirit you talk about, but also try to discover what the non-Omnian people think and feel about the Omnians. Witches are good at that sort of thing."

Tiffany thought she detected a note of condescension in her tone, but she might have imagined it; it was difficult to tell with vampires as they tended to look down on just about everyone.

"Yes, sergeant," was all she said.

"Good," said Sally, "we'll meet back here at noon."

"How will we know the time, sergeant?" asked Agnes.

Sally just rolled her eyes while Tiffany tapped her on the shoulder and pointed at the clock tower.

"Ah, yes, well, I should have spotted that," she apologised.

"Noon," said Sally.

"Yes, sergeant," they chorused, saluting, and then all three went their separate ways.

For the next three hours the two witches wandered around the streets, growing increasingly appalled with each passing minute. Neither of them could detect any direct signs of the malign spirit, only its residue, but what they did find was almost worse. The good citizens of Ankh-Morpork hated the Omnians. They didn't dislike them, they didn't despise them; they hated them, with a passion that bordered on being deranged. And that was its essence; its fury was utterly irrational. Agnes was sure that if she had stopped any passing stranger and asked them what they thought of Omnians she'd have got spitting rage. But if she asked them why they hated Omnians so much she would have got blank incomprehension. These people detested Omninans, they loathed them with an almost murderous ferocity, but they didn't know why.

Eventually Agnes felt the need to give vent to her own feelings. To begin with she made do with making people drop things, initially just whatever they were carrying but later only things that would break or be otherwise ruined –like cakes- by falling to the ground. After a while this wasn't enough and she started to make people trip over their own feet or walk into posts. It was while she was quietly laughing at a particularly nasty man having banged his head by falling down a flight of stairs that she began to wonder if she was not herself beginning to fall under the malign influence of what was making these people hate Omnians in the first place. She decided she'd better make her way back to the rendezvous.

Meanwhile Tiffany was coming to much the same conclusion. She had begun with tripping people up and bloodying their noses by walking into doors but had quickly graduated to starting fights. For no apparent reason a rather unpleasant little man would go up to someone much larger and stronger than himself and punch him in the mouth, with predictable consequences. She was enjoying herself so much that it took her a while to realise how wrong what she was doing was. By the time she decided to head back to the clock tower there were scuffles breaking out all around the Egitto.

They reached the meeting point at almost the same time to find Sally already waiting for them.

"Anything to report?" she asked.

Tiffany spoke to Agnes with a look and Agnes answered with a nod.

"Yes, sergeant," said Tiffany, "and it isn't good."

"Ok," said Sally, "but save it. We have a meeting to go to."

While she led them through The Shades the two witches held onto each other's hands as though their souls depended on it. A place more different from the Egitto it was impossible for them to imagine. It wasn't as though either of them was unfamiliar with danger, and they could both handle themselves in a tight spot, but this was strange territory for them; alien and frightening. Tiffany thought that the way the people looked at them, especially the men, was like they were trying to decide if they would fetch more money in a butcher's shop or a Klatchian slave-market.

Agnes thought the same; she also thought that Tiffany would end up on the meat market while she'd end up on the meat hook. On the other hand she also found that she couldn't detect any of the hatred for Omnians that she'd felt in the more salubrious streets, just generalised hatred for everyone: people in The Shades weren't choosey; they couldn't afford to be. At one point she'd noticed someone she recognised. It was Rescue Annie, one of the women from the Guild of Seamstresses. When they'd been introduced -Annie had been visiting a friend in one of the hospital wards- Agnes had thought her a slight, almost insignificant figure, but if this was her patch then she was clearly the toughest thread in the box, or the sharpest needle, or both. Annie waved and Agnes waved back: rather you than me, she thought.

Tiffany was actually oddly relieved when she began to detect the first signs of anti-Omnian feeling –at least it meant they were leaving The Shades- but then she saw the strangest thing. There had been a great deal of graffiti in The Shades, most of it obscene, at least the stuff that wasn't insane, but she'd never before seen a graffito write itself. She stopped, bringing Agnes to a stop with her.

"What is it?" Sally wanted to know.

"What does that mean?" asked Tiffany, pointing at the words: MENE, MENE,TEKEL UPHARSIN.

It would be wrong to say that Sally went pale –her skin was never less white than cotton- but she did the vampire equivalent: all the colour drained from her eyes. Tiffany thought it was rather scary. She didn't answer, just grabbed Tiffany by the arm –rather too hard, Tiffany thought.

"Come on," she said, and led them hurriedly away.

The meeting was being held in one of the back rooms of a large and rather disreputable public house –as if there were any other kind. There the witches were introduced to Kate, a dangerous and disreputable character, and Patrick, perhaps even more dangerous; certainly more louche. Captain Mudd was also present and it was to him that they made their reports. When they had finished Kate was the first to speak:

"It sounds like a disease," she said, unhappily, "and one that even we could catch."

"It's actually more like an epidemic," said Harry, "we're getting reports of the same thing from as far away as Sto Lat and Sto Hellit."

"I didn't realise there were that many Omians on the plains," said Patrick, sounding puzzled.

"There aren't," said Harry, "that's what makes it so mad: they're hating people out there that most of them have never even seen."

"What does 'mene, mene, tekel upharsin' mean?" asked Tiffany, suddenly.

In the silence that followed you could have heard a fly break wind. When finally someone answered it was Harry, and in a whisper:

"It means the end of the world."

 **Chapter 39**

They met outside El Tinto for Octday lunch. Sacharissa thought that if it was going to be a boozy one –which wine quaffing suggested it would be- it was better to do it on a non-working day. They were greeted at the door by Alejandro, the handsome, muscly, long-haired waiter.

"Buenos dias, señoritas," he said, in his thick Hersheban accent. His great grandparents may have come from Hersheba but Alex had been born at the end of Sacharissa's street and had never been farther than Chirm.

"Afternoon, Alex," said Sacharissa.

"Good afternoon, Miss Cripslock," said Alex, dropping the act.

"This is my friend, Gudrun," she said, gesturing towards the dwarf.

"Encantado de conocerte," said Alejandro, dropping back into character.

"Forget it," said Sacharissa, "she's spoken for."

"Am I?" asked Gudrun, puzzled.

"Yes, you are," Sacharissa confirmed.

"Oh, that's nice to know," said Gudrun.

"Your usual table, miss?" asked Alex.

"Yes, please."

They quickly quaffed a bottle of La Putamadre, which Gudrun said was excellent, before confessing that she'd never quaffed wine before and was feeling a bit light-headed. Sacharissa ordered another bottle which she suggested they should sip while the ordered some food. Hersheba was famous for its fish and other seafood and El Tinto's menu was famous even among Hershebans but, as its name suggested, it didn't recommend, or even stock, any white wines. Eduardo, its proprietor, refused to acknowledge that such a thing even existed.

1 Mind you as people on the Disc weren't sure how long the year was, either 800 or 400 days, this was not uncommon.

1 According to Monsieur Shale, the head chef at the troll restaurant Le Granite, "fresh lava should only be served with the whitest sand from the Rimward beaches of Genua".

1 Sacharissa said that she loved _Honeysuckle Hopkins_. Katy realised that this was probably because of her love of alliteration, but she loved hearing it all the same.

1 Kelvin Side was the brother of Kelvin Bridge, the editor of _The Post_. They came from the Baffled Island of Glaikit, where things were done backwards.

1 In the tradition Sacharissa had been raised in women never swore.

2 Gudrun had been brought up in similar tradition, at least in this respect.

1 So much so that he had begun buying uniforms out of his own pocket, even though it was better to buy them out of a tailor's shop.

1 The only reason he knew what unchanged nappies smelt like was that some of his customers sometimes came in wearing them, until Kate made them go home to wash and change.

1 It was almost universally agreed that the best chocolate on The Disc came from the small town of Flavigny in Howandaland. It was made by two sisters –Val and Rhona-who had original come from the Baffled Island of Mawkit.

1 The Disc's Celestial Year was 800 days long and had two summers and two winters.

1 They'd attended the same boarding school, and Marbury was one of the few people who knew Bothermore's real first name. Everyone else thought it was Henry.

1 No one knew how this phrase had arisen as elves were famous for never sharing anything.

1 This was odd given that Katy was highly intelligent and had previously had boyfriends.

1 Also like bees they only had one fertile female, Kelda being the equivalent of the Queen Bee. The difference with the Nac Mac Feegle was that both the drones and the workers were all male.


End file.
